. B21 A3 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 





000134fi^H40 



CONFESSIONS OF 
BOYHOOD 

JOHN ALBEE 




BOSTON 

RICHARD G. BADGER 

THE GORHAM PRESS 
I9IO 



Copyright 1910 by John Albee 



All Rights Reserved 



Bsi A3 



The Goruam Press, Boston, U S. a 



©CI.A265400 



CONTENTS 

Introduction r 

The Walls of the World 27 

Shadows and Echoes ri 

Holidays 52 

The Amputation yy 

Country Funerals gg 

My Mother's Red Cloak 96 

My Uncle Lyman 107 

The Dorr War and Millerism 124 

Woods and Pastures 132 

Apprenticeships 143 

Home and Homesickness 148 

The Saw Mill 1^5 

Bootmaking i5q 

Love and Luxury 1-76 

Shop Boy 192 

Pistol Maker 204 

3 



CONTENTS 

The i\wakening 211 

Student Life 228 

School Master 238 

Farm Hand 252 

Conclusion 263 



INTRODUCTION 

FOR so many years Belllngham has 
had its abode In my fancy that I 
find it hard to associate the town 
with a definite geographical loca- 
tion. I connect it rather with the 
places of dreams and wonderland; the lost 
cities of the Oxus and Hydaspes, the Hes- 
perian Gardens and those visionary realms 
visited and named by poets. My birthplace 
grows unfamiliar when I take down an atlas 
and run my finger over the parti-colored di- 
visions of the Norfolk County of Massachu- 
setts and trace the perimeter which confines 
Bellingham to its oblong precinct, surround- 
ed by those mythical lands of Mendon, Mil- 
ford and Medway. They wear an authorita- 
tive appearance on the map; but for me they 
occupied no such positions in my childhood 
and stand as stubborn realities hindering my 
feet when I wish to return to the Red House 
of my fathers. Once there, memory and fact 
are no longer conflicting. I find, as of old, 
the gently undulating hills, the gently loiter- 
ing stream. 

5 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

The legends concerning the founding of 
Bellingham are missing. I am sorry; for I 
could believe the most extravagant, feeling 
with Plutarch, that fortune, in the history of 
any town, often shows herself a poet. The 
Delphian Pythoness advised Theseus to 
found a city wherever in a strange land he 
was most sorrowful and afflicted. There at 
length he would find repose and happiness. 
Thus it happened when the wanderers from 
Braintree settled on the shores of the upper 
Charles. They brought their unhappy for- 
tunes so far, and there, in due time, found 
comfort and contentment. 

The traveller, journeying through the 

highways of Bellingham, would see nothing 

to attract his attention or interest. It has no 

monuments, ruins nor historic associations; 

no mountain, nor hill even. The Charles 

river has travelled so little way from its 

source as hardly yet to be a river. The soil 

is stony and pays back not much more than is 

put into it. The fine forests of white oak 

have been mostly reduced to ashes in the 

stoves of Milford, and their oracles have 

ceased. My father, who could cut as clean a 

scarf as any man of his day, helped to fell 

6 



INTRODUCTION 

them. Scrub oak and gray birch have taken 
their places, but do not fill them. One great 
elm remains; it seemed to me the largest and 
oldest tree in the world. My mother nursed 
her children in its shade; under it my world 
began. In its top lived the wind and from the 
longest spray of its longest limb the oriole 
hung her artistic basket and brooded her gold- 
en babies. Like many another ancient door- 
yard tree it carried back its traditional origin 
to a staff stuck in the ground and left to its 
fate. 

Bellingham was incorporated in 17 19 by 
yeoman farmers, and later settled largely by 
Revolutionary soldiers from neighboring com- 
munities on the east, particularly from old 
Braintree. On the Mendon tablet placed in 
memory of the founders of the town appears 
the name of my earliest ancestor. He was 
a surveyor and plotted the land and built the 
first mill, being called from Braintree for that 
purpose. Permit me to take pride in my 
learned ancestor, especially in his talent for 
figures— the distress of my life. The most 
interesting periods in the annals of the New 
England people are when they began to or- 
ganize themselves into communities for the 

7 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

promotion of law, learning and piety. Their 
efforts were primitive yet affecting. Their lan- 
guage halted, but they knew what they wanted 
and meant to have. 

Such are the records of Bellingham. And 
other history it has little out of the common 
incidents of humanity. No eminent sons have 
as yet remembered it with noble benefactions. 
It has had no poet and no mention in litera- 
ture. The reporters pass it by. It is not even 
a suburb, last sad fate of many towns and 
villages. This is one of the reasons for my 
attachment— its unchangeableness, its entire 
satisfaction of sentiment. 

Yet such is the charm of one's native soil 
that he is able to find in it the most wonderful 
of all the beautiful things of the soul, namely, 
those which no one else can see or believe. 
After long years of absence, on returning to 
Bellingham, my memory sees more than my 
eyes. She who accompanies me in my ram- 
bles over the town often takes photographs of 
the places dearest to me; but her pictures 
show not what I behold, and she wonders 
what it can be that so infatuates me. I see a 
hand she cannot see — forms, faces, happen- 
ings not registered on the camera; places 

8 



INTRODUCTION 

where linger the invisible spirits of joyful or 
painful experiences; playmates, companions, 
whole families now dust, a thousand events 
recalled only when time begins to obliterate 
those of the present moment. 

Although the sun went down over venerable 
Mendon town, it lingered longer over Belling- 
ham in summer days than in any place I have 
known. There was hardly any night; just a 
few attic stairs, a dream, and the sun and I 
were again at play. Nor elsewhere were ever 
the summer clouds so high, so near the blue, 
so impetuous in the constant west wind to fol- 
low each other into the unknown, mysterious 
east. 

Fortunate is the town with a river flowing 
through its whole length and boys and girls to 
accompany its unhasting waters. It was made 
for them, also for the little fish and the white 
scented lilies. For a few hours of the day 
the great floats of the mill wheel drank of it, 
sending it onward in the only agitation it ever 
permitted itself. Then there was Bear Hill, 
though never a bear in the oldest memory, 
yet the name was ominous to children. I fear- 
ed it and liked to visualize its terrors from a 
safe distance in the blackberry field behind the 

9 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

Red House. To kill a bear or an Indian was 
the very limit of imaginative prowess. It was 
too easy, and In an hour, tiresome, to kill 
birds, snakes and anything one chanced up- 
on that had life. Only the grasshop- 
per could escape with the ransom of 
some molasses from the jug he carries 
hidden, no one knows where. You nev- 
er knew a grasshopper was provisioned 
with a molasses jug? Well then you have 
never studied the boy's traditional natural 
history. Therein are recorded things unknown 
to science; discoveries never divulged, secrets 
more deep than the Elusinian, passed on from 
initiate to initiate for countless generations. 
Nature has told them only to children, and 
when grown to manhood, seals their lips with 
that Impious Injunction to put away childish 
things. 

It Is not a river nor a landscape that gives 
to a town Its real Importance; it Is the char- 
acter of its men and women. That Is the pin- 
nacle from which to view its landscape. Be- 
fore cities and factories had begun to stir 
the ambition and attract the young by op- 
portunities for fortune and fame, Bell- 
ingham was the home of an intelligent, 

10 



INTRODUCTION 

llberty-loving people; a community self- 
sufficing, sharing its abundance with those 
less abounding. It was thus the best place in 
the world to be born about the first third of 
the last century — to be explicit, in eighteen 
hundred and thirty-three. And I wish that I 
and the companions of my childhood could 
have imitated Plutarch who said "I live in a 
little town and choose to live there lest it 
should become smaller." 

All that is dear remains as it was, and it is 
my delight to remember and magnify what it 
is to me. My friends laugh when I say it is 
better to be remembered in Bellingham than 
to be famous in ten cities. It has been my 
misfortune never to have lived in any other 
place that in a few years, did not change and 
forget itself. I cannot find anything in my 
later residences that continues to connect me 
with them. They have cut a street through 
me, they have torn down and rebuilt my old 
nests; and I know no more melancholy inti- 
mation of the small consequence of one's life 
and associations than this. Therefore I thank 
Heaven for a town removed from the track 
of progress, uninvaded by summer visitors and 

all business enterprises ; land left sacred to its 

II 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

native Inhabitants, a sluggish stream, unprofit- 
able earth, huckleberry bushes and the imag- 
ination. Since this is so, and there is little fear 
of intrusion by the curious or the mercenary, 
I will confide to my readers the situation of 
the town with the understanding that they 
will never attempt to verify my description. 

It lies in the southwestern corner of Nor- 
folk county, is eight miles long from north to 
south, from three to four in width. The 
brooks and ponds in the southern part have 
their outlet into the Blackstone river; those 
of the north into the Charles, which is the 
natural but tortuous bound between eighteen 
towns and cities of the county. It was named 
for one of the Provincial governors of Massa- 
chusetts, Richard Bellingham — a fine name. 
Farming is the chief occupation of the inhab- 
itants at present as it always has been. In 
former times there were two or three small 
cotton and woollen mills on the river. The 
oldest of them, on the banks of the Charles, 
is as picturesque a ruin as time, fire and neglect 
are able to achieve in a hundred years. The 
walls of heavy blocks of stone, roofless and 
broken in outline, are still standing. Great 
trees have grown up within them and now 

12 



INTRODUCTION 

overtop them. Here and there a poplar leans 
forth from a broken window casement, leav- 
ing scant room for the ghosts of ancient spin- 
ners and weavers to peer into the outer world 
at midnight. From a distance It resembles a 
green, enclosed orchard. Decay may mantle 
itself In newest green but cannot obliterate 
memories of former generations. On these 
fallen floors the young women of Belllngham 
once labored and were merry on fifty cents a 
day, a working day never less than twelve 
hours long. They sang at their work, and 
when the loom was running in good order, 
they leaned out of the windows or gossiped 
with each other. On Sundays the roads and 
fields were gay with these respectable Yankee 
maidens, becurled and berlbboned, philander- 
ing with their sweethearts or in bevies visit- 
ing each other's houses. Every girl had her 
album in which her friends wrote their names, 
and usually they were able to contribute an 
original stanza; or, If not, a line from the 
hymn-book, or a sentiment from the school 
reader or Bible. They dressed in calico In 
summer and in winter linsey-woolsey, and 
wore at their work ample aprons of osna- 
burg, a small checked blue and white cloth. 

13 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

Vice was unknown; at least the annals re- 
cord no flagrant examples. 

I fear those who only know the cotton and 
woollen mills of this day cannot realize or be- 
lieve what an immense blessing they were to 
New England when they first began to dot all 
the streams offering sufficient water power to 
operate their machinery. For the first time 
they opened a way for young women to earn 
money whereby they could assist their families 
and promote the improvement of their own 
condition. Work in these mills was sought 
as a temporary employment generally; or for 
the purpose of gaining money enough to at- 
tend an academy for a few terms, from 
whence they were graduated qualified to teach 
a district school. It is said, that formerly, 
when the factory girls were all American, five 
hundred could have been found at any time in 
the Lowell mills competent to teach school. 
What a contrast these girls were in health, 
beauty and intelligence to the pale, pinched 
faces and bedraggled dresses now seen hurry- 
ing to the Fall River and Manchester mills. 
The mill girls of 1840 were self-respecting, 
neat in their dress, religious, readers of good 
books, members of all kinds of clubs for 

14 



INTRODUCTION 

study, and many of them could write excel- 
lent English. The Lowell Offering, a mag- 
azine conducted by factory girls at the 
period I have mentioned, now seems very 
remarkable; not so much perhaps for its 
contributions, as that it should have ex- 
isted at all. Yet the writing in the 
Operatives^ Magazine and the Lowell Of- 
fering was as good as that now appearing 
in periodicals, in some respects superior, being 
the free, unpaid and spontaneous utterances 
of the human heart. It is mentioned with 
praise in Emerson's Dial, One of our sweet- 
est New England poets, Lucy Larcom, began 
her career as a writer in them. I write that 
name where I can see from my window a 
mountain named in her honor. Although her 
childhood was widely different from mine in 
outward circumstances, I find in her auto- 
biography something of her inward experi- 
ences that reminds me of my own. 

All the old-time life of farm and factory 
is gone. It is refreshing to know a single 
remnant of it left anywhere; and I was never 
more surprised and delighted than to find in 
Florence, Massachusetts, a few years ago, a 
large class of silk mill girls reading and study- 

15 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

ing Chaucer under the direction of a farmer's 
wife of the same place. Bellingham mill, 
may you continue to be filled with goodly trees 
until you can assemble a class in Chaucer ! 

Near this ruined mill stands a row of tene- 
ment houses fast falling to pieces and one 
large house where some of the operatives were 
boarded. In the neighboring hamlet nearly 
every house is standing that was there fifty 
years ago, and there are no new ones. There 
was an ancient law of Solon that houses in the 
country should be placed a bowshot apart, and 
this regulation seems to have been observed 
in Bellingham. You could see their lights in 
the evening, hear the dogs bark and the cock 
crow at dawn. 

Over the Green Store is a hall where 
formerly Adin Ballou used to preach his 
various gospels of Universalism, temper- 
ance, peace and abolition on Sunday after- 
noons following the morning services in his 
neighboring parish, the Hopedale Com- 
munity. As my family was attached to 
the Baptist and Methodist persuasions I 
cannot now imagine what drew them to hear 
this famous reformer of society and religion. 
They must have attended in this hall, for al- 

i6 



INTRODUCTION 

though I cannot recall anything else, I do re- 
member going to sleep there in the hot sum- 
mer afternoons in my sister's lap. But any 
kind of a meeting was a temptation not to be 
resisted in that little community. Adin Bal- 
lou was in full sympathy with all the other re- 
formers and transcendentalists of the Com- 
monwealth, and when I search myself for an 
explanation of my early and intuitive attrac- 
tion to their ideals I sometimes fancy they 
must have visited me in my sleep in that old 
hall; or perhaps I heard something which lay 
like a seed in the unconscious, secret recesses 
of my being until time and favoring circum- 
stances called it forth. For I find it recorded, 
that he fired his hearers with aspirations for 
"grand objects and noble ideas." 

Regarding the topography of Bellingham, 
the most that can be said is, that it has none, 
none that distinguishes it either by lakes or 
hills. The best soil is in the northern and 
southern parts of the town and along the val- 
ley of the Charles river. The white oaks were 
once the most abundant of the deciduous trees. 
They seem to love a lean and stubborn soil. 
I have seen graves laid open to a considerable 
depth where oaks had once stood, and still 

17 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

uncovering nothing but coarse gravel. I have 
talked with ancient well-diggers who declared 
that the bottom of Bellingham was just like 
the top and only good for grey birch and 
beans. Yet they may not have dug after all 
to the veins which supply the floral and ar- 
boreal life of the earth. A poor soil is usual- 
ly porous, admitting more wholesome air and 
sunshine, and it is through these vital forces 
that trees and men grow taller and hardier. 
Thus do I like to compensate the sterile fields 
of my native place by their stalwart, thin, 
straight-backed citizens, all bone and muscle, 
living with undimmed eyes and ears to ripe 
old age, mowing their meadows to the last 
summer of their lives and dying conveniently 
in some winter month when work was slack. 
The dial of my childhood marked none but 
sunny days; the dry air and drier earth of 
Bellingham gave me health and strength. I 
never found any road in the town too long 
for my walking if only the summer afternoon 
were as long. I knew the roads and byways 
foot by foot, and could find my way, If need 
were, in the night as well as In the day. All 
the houses I knew and their occupants; all the 

good apple trees and whose was every cow 

i8 



INTRODUCTION 

grazing in the roadside pastures or resting 
beneath a tree. If I could have my will I 
would spend the remainder of my days ram- 
bling once more and every day those familiar 
roads and lanes, like Juno descending the 
Olympian path — 

"Reflecting with rapid thoughts 
There was I, and there, remembering many 
things." 

The most perfect picture of contentment 
Is a cow lying In the green grass under a 
green tree chewing her cud; and this content- 
ment I could realize, give me back the sandy 
highways and green meadows, my bare feet, 
Idleness and long summer days. 

I was even more familiar with the pastures 
and the woods than with the roads. The 
whole surface of my ambit was spread out 
like a miniature map In my eye, and continues 
to be. Especially I knew the convenient ways 
of reaching the river and Beaver pond and 
the brook which connects It with the river 
Charles. It grieves me that this stream has 
never been celebrated In verse or prose ; while 
the Concord, which rises on the same water- 

19 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

shied with the Charles and almost from the 
same spring, has had several famous poets 
and is historic In Revolutionary annals. Long- 
fellow sang one short song to our river, but 
he looked out only on the foul mudbanks of 
its Cambridge course, shut the door, went back 
to his study and composed his subjective 
Charles. 

Slowly did I learn the actual extent and 
course of the river Charles which, in my 
childhood, rose as a shallow stream In the 
green depths of a wood lying to the north of 
Bellingham, flowing east, then south under 
the arched bridge near the school house, emp- 
tying somewhere in the southern sky; for, in 
my childish apprehension, I thought It must 
run up from where I was most familiar with 
it. Its youth and mine were coincident, and 
as years were added, the river broadened and 
lengthened until I found myself one day at 
its mouth, in reaching which, it had touched 
and watered eighteen towns. It is the father 
of no considerable stream, but innumerable 
rivulets add to Its waters. It is about thirty 
miles from source to mouth In a direct 
course though it wanders a hundred miles in 
its efforts to find the ocean. 

20 



INTRODUCTION 

"There runs a shallow brook across our field 
For twenty miles where the black crow flies 
five." 

It never has any headlong haste to arrive. It 
saunters like a schoolboy and stops to visit a 
thousand recesses and indentations of upland 
and meadow. It stays for a cow to drink, 
or an alder to root itself in the bank, or to 
explore a swamp, and it rather wriggles than 
runs through its eighteen townships. It is 
likely to stop at any one of them and give up 
the effort to reach the sea. For my part I 
wish it had, and actually, as in my memory 
and fancy, ended at the outermost shores of 
Bellingham. 

The revolution of the earth can only ac- 
count for the flow of the Charles for there 
is no perceptible descent of the land. I like 
to think it is ruled by the stars and not by 
the configuration of the earth's surface. It 
is vagrant and nomadic in its habits, moving 
on a little, returning, winding and doubling, 
uncertain of its own intentions, a brother of 
the English Wye, said to derive its name from 
Vaga, the wanderer, or vagabond. Since its 
waters sprang from their fountain head and 

21 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

learned that their destiny was to become a 
river, they have never been in haste to reach 
its turbid outlet, but go reluctantly from 
town to town with whole days before them, 
yes, perhaps, it was an age in making its 
first journey. It loses its way often, but cares 
not so there be a pleasant meadow to mean- 
der through or a contemplative fisherman to 
companion its course. The Charles has never 
gained force, as man is said to do, by having 
obstacles to overcome. It treats all the dams 
which intercept its current with a lenient 
benevolence, never having been known to 
carry one away. Meeting a dam, it turns the 
other cheek; in other words it patiently re- 
tires into its higher channels and fountains, 
filling and stilling the little babbling brooks 
by its backward impulse, contented to be a 
pond when it cannot be a river. It scarcely 
resisted the ancients of Dedham, when they 
attempted to steal it. Having no watershed 
of its own, the Charles is not subject to those 
floods and frenzies which make so many other 
streams dangerous. Sedges and flags, the 
skunk cabbage and marsh marigold, grape 
vines, alders, willows and button bush abound 
along its shores. White and yellow lilies 

22 



INTRODUCTION 

and the pickerel weed almost choke its 
course in many places. Under the leaves of 
these hides himself that fish which old anglers 
named the water-wolf, the pickerel, who 
preys upon his smaller brothers and sisters. 
All is fish that comes into his net. There was 
no more exciting moment in my boyhood than 
when a pickerel swallowed the frog's leg on 
my hook and began to retreat with it under 
the lily pads. In the stream also were horned 
pouts, perch, shiners and that silly little fish 
we called ''kivers," for which my earliest fish- 
ing was done with a bent pin. I was natur- 
ally capacitated for fishing by my fondness 
for silence and solitude. The mystery of wa- 
ter drew me from one pool to another and a 
constant expectancy of a larger fish than had 
ever been caught. I was not aware that 
words could make him as big as one chose; 
but I had pictured him in my mind in all his 
immense and shining length. What I most 
wished to catch was a leviathan; my mother 
when reading the word in the Bible had told 
me it meant some kind of great fish, the larg- 
est in the world. Once indeed I thought I 
had him on my hook, but it proved only a 
sunken log. Of stillness and solitude I had 

23 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

my fill strolling along the banks of the river. 
It seemed like Sunday without the require- 
ments Imposed upon me by that day, stiff 
shoes and Sunday-school. I became as still 
as the nature around me, stepping softly and 
almost hushing my breath. If I might de- 
scribe In one word the sensation which I com- 
monly experienced In my earliest lonely In- 
tercourse with stream and forest It was a 
breathless expectation, made up In part of 
fear. In part of a vague hope of discovering 
something wonderful. This quest never 
wearied nor disheartened me; I only became 
more eager In Its pursuit the more It evaded 
me ; another search, another day and It would 
be revealed. What would be revealed? 
There are no words given to man in which 
he can clearly portray the striving of the 
spirit for that which shall resemble and sat- 
isfy its visions and aspirations. The child 
sees these visions and feels these aspirations 
and strives to put his finger upon them; they 
exist for him as physical objects which he 
wishes to capture and carry home to his 
mother with a proud consciousness of his val- 
or. As soon as she had praised my handful of 
flowers, my pocketful of nuts, or little string 

24 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

of fish they palled upon me and I began Im- 
mediately to feel an uneasy sense of disap- 
pointment, of disillusion, knowing I had mis- 
erably failed. The bombastic brag to my 
mother and her praise were a kind of mock- 
ery and falsehood. Illusion followed illu- 
sion, defeat followed defeat, yet the morrow 
was ever to be their healer and compensation. 
How often have I been soothed by the wave- 
less waters of the Charles river, its whispering 
ripples scarcely reaching the shores and mak- 
ing no impression upon it. But on my ear 
they sounded like words interjected with soft 
laughter. There I made acquaintance with 
the earth, the waters, the shadows of the 
sky, trying often to sink my hook to the edge 
of a cloud. It was not in the heavens that I 
first noticed the stars, but their trembling 
images in water. 

Thus by the humble and narrow environ- 
ment of my childhood was It made doubly 
dear to me; the very limitations themselves 
enforcing and promoting the growth of won- 
der and healthy imagination. It is this which 
has kept alive my early memories and made 
them pleasant and suggestive throughout my 
life. Nor do I think my experiences peculiar. 

25 



INTRODUCTION 

Sir Henry Wotton In the last years of his 
life happily expressed the feeling common to 
men. "Seeing that very place where I sat 
when I was a boy occasioned me to remem- 
ber those very thoughts of my youth which 
then possessed me; sweet thoughts indeed, 
that promised my growing years numerous 
pleasures without mixture of cares; and those 
to be enjoyed when time, which I therefore 
thought slow-paced had changed my youth 
into manhood". 

As I have already said unchangeable- 
ness is the characteristic of Bellingham, and 
I repeat it, that I may add that it is the coun- 
terpart of something in myself. I have been 
swept on with my race and my time and 
while sharing all their tendencies, at heart 
what I value most, that which Is most native 
and dearest to me Is the simple undisturbed 
life, full of friendliness, piety and humble 
amusements Into which I was born. What 
this life was, as reflected In a happy child- 
hood, a neglected youth and Idealised by Its 
Irrecoverable loss the following pages at- 
tempt to portray. 



26 



THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 

A ONE-STORIED house was lofty 
and convenient enough in a land 
where God had planted a com- 
munity of his common people. 
That was the height of the 
temple of the Greeks, which was only the 
enlarged form of the hut or the house 
of their Pelasgian ancestors. It was built 
low in due reverence to its origin and to 
their gods. No other architecture has ever 
surpassed its beauty and sublimity. The 
earth is ours to build upon and over, nor 
much above. The early New England farm- 
house was as beautiful in its place as the 
Greek temple. Sometimes it was set directly 
on the highway; sometimes in the middle of 
a field or on the side of rising ground, and 
not infrequently on the top of a hill, where 
it shared without deforming, the natural ele- 
vation of the earth. It was usually square, 
but sheds and outbuildings lengthened its ap- 
pearance and these latter added a comfort- 
able and homelike aspect and were a larger 
sort of window through which the wayfarer 

27 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

seemed to behold the life of the family more 
intimately. The pitch of the roof was flat- 
tened, the better to resist wind and storm, 
and through it arose the chimney stack. On 
either side of the front door were the parlor 
and living room; the former seldom 
opened, and the latter rarely occupied un- 
til afternoon and evening. The back 
door was the most in use at all times, 
and it was through it that one came 
nearest to the hearts and homelife of 
the inmates. The kitchen was where the 
meals were cooked and eaten, the Bible read 
at morning and evening and pipes lighted by 
a live coal from the hearth. This live coal 
was sometimes lost and the tinderbox miss- 
ing; then the man of the family would travel 
to the nearest house for a spark with which 
to kindle his lost fire. The methods of carry- 
ing and keeping it alive were numerous and 
ingenious; a warming pan or iron pot would 
answer, if the distance was not too great. 
One of my forefathers awoke on a winter 
morning to find the ashes in the fireplace cold, 
and the nearest neighbor eight miles away. 
It was an impossible undertaking to keep a 
coal alive on a walk of eight miles. Wrap- 

28 



THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 

ping a piece of cotton cloth tightly about a 
small stick he ignited one end at his neighbor's 
hearth, and like an humble Prometheus car- 
ried the smouldering gift to his little world 
and its belated breakfast. 

The kitchen was the favorite gathering 
place of humble New England families and 
it was there they were best seen and under- 
stood; there the spinning wheel hummed 
while the pot was boiling or the bannock bak- 
ing; there stockings and boots were dried by 
the open fire and the latter daily greased. 
With what pride did I see my first pair stand- 
ing there shining in their coat of pig's scro- 
tum, this being thought invulnerable to wet, 
especially snow water. Hardly could I go 
to bed for longing to look at them and to try 
them on for I know not how many times. By 
the wide hearth of stone or brick, one could 
whittle with impunity. Dirt is not common 
dirt in front of an open fire. Charles Lamb's 
clean hearth or that of the too fastidious 
modern house robs it of half its comfort and 
attractiveness. A little matter out of place, 
somebody's definition of dirt, is one of the 
most hospitable and cordial things I ever 
meet in the houses of my friends. A room 

29 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

with evidences of being lived in by the fam- 
ily invites me to share the intimacy of that 
life for the time being; but a too carefully 
garnished room, which my host occupies only 
while a guest is present, relegates me to my 
proper place— a stranger within the gates. It 
was with difficulty the family could be driven 
into the sitting room in the evening. The men 
preferred to stretch out on the settle and 
smoke another pipe; the boys had a little 
more whittling to do and loved to hear their 
elders talk. Rarely was an outer garment 
put on by men during the week days of win- 
ter except on Sundays when riding cloaks 
were the common wear for women, surtouts 
for men. These were hand woven, or if 
purchased, were of camlet. It was said of a 
certain family that a drop of its blood was as 
good as a great coat, so hardy and healthy 
were its sons. 

Among such farmers and manners and cus- 
toms was I born, in a red house under the 
great elm. In its shade the old doctor waited 
and talked with the expectant father until 
called into the house by the women who pre- 
sided at such functions in the neighborhood. 
My memory does not reach back to the 

30 



THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 

^'trailing clouds of glory", but doubtless It 
was these which obscured the April sun that 
afternoon, so that the new baby could be 
carried out under the elm tree and there 
rocked to his first sleep. My next excursion, 
so the family traditions aver, was to Uncle 
Peter's, the nearest neighbor, the oracle of 
the community for all signs, omens and coun- 
try folk-lore, who, taking me in his arms, 
carried me to the attic of his house and 
touched my head to the ridgepole : "What 
did you do that for?" my mother asked. 
"Oh, that's the way to make him a great man 
sometime. I does it to all the boy babies. 
There's luck in it." In those days there were 
great hopes, and prophecies had not ceased. 
Many a sweet sleep did I have under the elm 
tree's shade later on; and many a tiresome 
hour turning the grindstone for the long 
bladed sythes. In the trunk of the tree were 
stuck many worn out blades, their points im- 
bedded by the tree's growth from year to 
year. Thus they became tallies marking the 
past seasons of haying. Under the tree was 
the afternoon parlor of the family through- 
out the summer; there all the feminine in- 
dustries went on, braiding straw, knitting and 

31 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

mending, or a letter was added to the sam- 
pler. Often some neighbor came bringing 
her work, for nobody could be idle for a 
moment. I do not know what they talked 
about, but I can guess. However the picture 
is faithful and attractive, though for us, silent 
now. I find as few representatives of the ideal 
common people as of the nobility or of genius. 
So let them remain a picture, and do not ask 
for their conversation, neither for their gram- 
mar nor pronounciation. Cannot a Dorian 
speak Doric? Kindly and helpful neighbors 
can live together without the correctness and 
elegancies of either. To me it is hateful to see 
them caricatured and made literary merchan- 
dise. Not so were the classic idyls and pas- 
torals of Theocritus, Virgil, Spenser and Saint 
Pierre composed. Is there nothing but bad 
grammar, mispronounciation and provincial- 
isms in the heart of the rustic? Must he 
be forever misrepresented by his speech that 
he may be saved by his virtues? The closer 
a picture is drawn to the outward circum- 
stance the more transient it will be. Ideals 
alone survive in art and literature. I should 
like to have the Theban law reenacted, which 
required the imitation in art of the beautiful 

32 



THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 

and forbade the representation of the de- 
formed and grotesque. 

Four summers had passed before I knew 
of any world beyond the walls of the Red 
House, the dooryard and the shade of the 
elm tree. I did not feel their confinement. 
There seemed to be boundless liberty, 
and the delusion Is complete when there 
is no sense of limitation. The goldfish 
In his glass prison no doubt supposes 
himself swimming In an infinite sea. 
When the boy's growth can be still meas- 
ured by his mother's yardstick his out- 
look Is restricted correspondingly. He 
climbs upon a chair with difficulty and cannot 
see over the table. This being, so lately 
from heaven, creeps upon the earth, and his 
first experiences are with the feet and under 
side of things. Ask the creeper how the hu- 
man face, a room and its furniture appear to 
him. My father's face as I looked up to 
him seemed to be very narrow and a yard 
long. A face there was not. Nor had my 
mother's round table any top; but its two 
crossbars beneath, screws and catch and three 
feet belonged to my under world. I could 
explore the floor from corner to corner; the 

33 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

mantel-shelf, windows and celling were 
worlds and worlds above me. Lifted on some 
one's shoulder I touched the celling with my 
finger and knew no greater joy nor anything 
more wonderful. 

At length the creeper raises himself to 
his feet. He walks, he can sit In a chair, 
but will not. If he only would, what care 
and trouble might be taken from his pro- 
tectors. But he has found the door open and 
the alluring dangers beyond; he has found 
a new realm which he hears called In the 
homely country speech out-of-doors. There 
Is where he now lives and finds his liveliest 
Interests. As he Is no longer a creeper but a 
being of Importance to himself he deserves 
a name, and It shall be henceforth I — my 
own small, as yet uncapltallzed I. 

The walls of my newly extended world are 
the low enchanted hills of Mendon. There 
the sky seems to curve down, to rest and to 
end. It takes a long time to remove that 
horizon line; even when one Is six feet. It of- 
ten remains In Its accustomed place. I shall 
pass beyond It, yet return again. My vision 
will be often contracted; I shall see what I 
once saw, become what I once was; shadowy 

34 



THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 

memories become bright by the touch of hand 
and foot, and even the sense of smell shall 
guide me through many a path and restore 
many a room, many a threshing floor and 
corn crib. When thrust back upon myself, 
defeated, hopeless, I have retreated to the 
scenes of my childhood where I could be tri- 
umphant and happy in possessions, of which 
I cannot be deprived, and that are beyond my 
own power to alienate. But that time is far 
in the future and I am contented with the 
walls of my present world now expanded to 
the hills of Mendon. Between them and me 
flows the Charles stream. It is impassible as 
far as I can see, yet I have heard and been 
warned of a bridge full of peril. It is, how- 
ever, an incredible distance to that bridge — 
as much as a quarter of a mile. When there, 
I dare not go forward lest I might be lost. 
I tremble with desire and apprehension. I 
return, slowly at first, then faster and faster, 
until, breaking into a run, I reach my moth- 
er's yard, where agitated but safe, I seem to 
have escaped some fearful thing. This risk 
gives me joy. So I go again, and this time I 
shall pass over the bridge and beyond into 
the unknown that eludes me. Adding to 

35 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

danger the temptation to disobedience, I go 
to the bridge oftener and oftener, some- 
times leaning over the rail to watch for a 
while the chips and straws floating along the 
surface of the slow stream. They are mov- 
ing in a direction of which I know nothing. 
The depth of the water at the bridge is not 
great, yet deep enough to be mysterious and 
it hypnotises me. It draws me into it and I 
lose myself. North and south, east and west, 
in the water and in the skies all is mystery 
which I am trying every moment to pene- 
trate. As to myself I know nothing. Re- 
flection, melancholy introspection, that sweet 
disease of youth, from which it is so difficult 
to escape, have not yet found me. There is 
as yet little consciousness of any thing be- 
yond external and material things save a faint 
incommunicable magic which hangs like a veil 
over the bounds of a small farm. From 
those bounds my feet will not disengage me. 
On very still days I hear sounds far away 
and feel something within me that wishes to 
follow them, does indeed follow over a great 
space and leaves my body behind. As I hang 
far over the rail of the bridge I see my face 
in the water and become absorbed in its dis- 

36 



THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 

torted reflections. I amuse myself exagger- 
ating them by various grimaces, swelling out 
and drawing in my fat cheeks. I dare the 
image to battle with my little fists; it accepts 
the challenge and returns blow for blow. 

The hither side of the bridge became more 
and more familiar, the farther side more and 
more desired. I knew the road to the school- 
house and to our three neighbors, all of whom 
I was accustomed to address as uncles and 
aunts. There was a fourth neighbor and 
nearer, yet there was a distance of some social 
kind. They were spoken of as Captain and 
Mistress Barber. To this house, a great 
Colonial mansion, with windows as large as 
those of the meetinghouse, I was often sent 
on errands. No matter how often, I could 
not deliver my message, or note or borrowed 
salt without the greatest confusion. I felt 
my breath give way, something fill my throat. 
It was the words I was told to say over and 
over, repeated all the way until I was too full 
for utterance. Mistress Barber looked down 
upon me with her long white face and was 
able to guess the purpose of the boy's mission 
through his stammering and embarrassment. 
In her gentle, affable voice, as I now recall 

37 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

it, I recognise the tone of a lady. She would 
inquire when the errand was done if the little 
boy would like an apple or a cake. The ques- 
tion was too difficult; so she gave him both. 
As I turned away I passed under the great 
pine tree standing a little way from the man- 
sion. It stood alone and it still stands two 
centuries old, in ample space and in conse- 
quence has grown symmetrical in form and 
luxuriant with foliage. It had realised the 
promise of its youth, a fate which 
happens to few trees in a forest. From its 
first majestic upward sweeping limbs to its 
tufted top reigned solemn and perpetual 
night. The wind scarcely swayed its dense 
and plumy branches. It merely turned up 
the silvery sides of the five-fingered clusters 
of needles which responded with a low 
melancholy voice like an aeolian harp, or 
those minor chords composed under its shade 
by my friend the Flute Player of Bellingham. 
In the woods when the pines sing it is not these 
I hear but the lone tree by the Barber man- 
sion. It was the only tree in my reach I had 
never climbed. I was afraid of its dark mys- 
terious recesses — also of Captain Barber. 
I grew old enough to do errands at longer 

38 



THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 

and longer distances. It was In doing them 
that I at length crossed the bridge, an event 
as Important to the child as the Rubicon to 
Caesar. I began the conquest of new worlds 
and to beat down the Mendon ramparts. I was 
despatched to a more distant neighbor, the 
great and wealthy house of the Pennlmans. 
In a clean frock and Sunday shoes, my face 
freshly washed, and with the largess of one 
cent with which to buy candy at the Green 
Store I departed full of anticipation, fear 
and excitement. To the bridge It was a fa- 
miliar way; beyond that half a mile, never 
before travelled by me. I crossed the bridge 
with three skips and a jump; never had It 
seemed so narrow ; but once beyond I was as- 
sailed with a thousand frights. The stone 
walls rose up to an Intolerable height; behind 
them lurked Innumerable wicked men and 
bears. There was terror In everything, and 
I looked back continually to see If the way 
of retreat remained open. When at last I 
lost sight of my mother's cottage my heart 
almost stopped beating. Should I ever find 
my way back? Should I ever see my home 
again? I hurried forward without turning 
my head as If the only safety now was In 

39 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

reaching my journey's end. Soon I climbed 
the eminence on which stood the Penniman 
mansion. Its vast size astonished me. It 
was two storied with a high gambrel roof 
making in effect a third story. Through the 
gambrel peaks rose two great chimneys, and 
I wondered what two chimneys could be for. 
Elaborate cornices surmounted the doors and 
windows; the doors were all closed, the win- 
dows draped; there was no sign of life any- 
where. High shrubbery in bloom surround- 
ed the house on three sides. There was not 
even a wood pile in sight, that most common 
accompaniment of every door yard I had ever 
seen. The barn and other out buildings were 
at some distance from the house — another 
strange thing. From the eminence of the 
Penniman mansion I could overlook the 
Mendon hills and to my surprise there was 
something beyond, indistinct, a greater dis- 
tance than I had ever looked into, and there 
vague forms rose up, whether clouds or other 
hills I could not tell. My errand called me 
away. I lifted the heavy brass knocker of the 
green double door and let it fall once. It was 
opened and I acquitted myself very well as 
I did not have to speak; I had only to deliver 

40 



THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 

a parcel with a note. Whether it was a lord- 
ly Penniman or only a servant who met me I 
knew not, as I feared to raise my eyes from 
under my wide brimmed straw hat, I held 
out the parcel, felt it taken and rushed away. 
Then my own important business began, the 
spending of my cent. The doors of the 
Green Store were wide open; a dog lay 
stretched on the platform in front; the sun 
poured his full rays over everything and an 
aspect of sleepy quiet pervaded the outside 
and inside of the building. There were no 
customers to be seen, nor sound to be heard 
save the buzzing of flies about the molasses 
measures at the farther end of the room. 
The store-keeper himself was fast asleep in 
a chair tilted against the counter. I stepped 
softly half fearing to awaken him. My 
Sunday shoes squeaked a little and the 
sound aroused him, though not entirely. 
He slowly opened his eyes, looking at me fix- 
edly as if uncertain of any presence. Then, 
at length, he tilted his chair forward with a 
bang, put a hand on each knee, raised himself, 
stretched, yawned and scowled upon me as a 
disturber of his peace. However the trader 
also awoke in him and he went behind his 

41 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

counter. I had not yet spoken a word. 
Words were not necessary, for the country 
storekeeper knows without being told what 
the small urchin with one hand clutched tight- 
ly wants of him. He took down a glass jar 
with a bright brass cover full of sticks of 
candy. There was only one short question to 
be asked and answered, "what color"? The 
boy, savage that he is, knows and de- 
lights in but one, and he said "red", a word 
he can spell also; blue has a twist he can- 
not yet master. Sometime Launa's eyes 
are going to teach him. In the shop, as he 
hurried out, his eyes saw many things never 
seen before. He coveted them all, especial- 
ly such as shone in steel or brass or bright 
new wood. He hardly knew their names; 
but what beautiful playthings they would 
make. All movable objects are potential 
playthings to him. He makes them also, like 
the Creator, out of nothing; if he wants a 
horse he has it on the instant by straddling 
a stick or tying a string to a companion. He 
has epic uses for his father's tools, his moth- 
er's knitting needles; they can slay a thou- 
sand foes at one stroke and the button bag 
contains them alive and dead. Six marching 

42 



THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 

clothes-pins are his army and conquer the 
world In an afternoon. 

The dog still slept as I left the store, the 
merchant returned to his chair, the sun shone 
on in noontide splendor. No shadow fell 
from the Pennlman mansion; It looked more 
lifeless and larger than ever. It seemed too 
large to me to live in and like a meeting- 
house. Not a leaf stirred on the great elm; 
the trim spires of the Lombardy poplars had 
folded their limbs upward to rest, as some- 
times one does his arms. The grasshopper 
began with a sudden shrill note which grew 
drowsy toward the close as if he were too 
lazy and hot to complete It. Over the sun- 
burnt fields shimmered the heated air. I 
seemed to be the only living, moving thing; 
the Intense hush, the high noon of the mid- 
summer day interfused my whole being so 
that I hardly dared to step for fear of dis- 
turbing the universal repose. It oppressed 
me with a sense of loneliness. A wagon com- 
ing along the road broke the spell and all 
things were restored to life. 

Before returning homeward I gazed once 
more over the Mendon hills and I wonder 
where and what that new looming world is. 

43 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

It is not many years before I know. My legs 
grow longer, the heart braver. I cross the 
bridge fearless and careless. Stone walls con- 
ceal neither friend nor foe. The forests con- 
tain only trees. I look down upon small boys ; 
they are now my natural prey. I throw stones 
at them and make them cry, which gives me 
unspeakable delight. I am proud, restless, 
agitated by nameless longings. The walls 
of my world oppress me. Destiny has de- 
termined that I shall not be disenchanted be- 
fore that world is entirely exhausted so that 
after many years I may recover its earliest 
charm. Nothing interests me more than a 
moment. I have become acquainted with 
Mistress Barber, the aristocratic Pennimans 
and Dr. Thurber, the poet— for Bellingham 
has a small poet, though I was like to forget 
it. He nods to me from his sulky. They 
say he writes his prescriptions in rhyme. He 
also composes epitaphs for his patients when 
his boluses fail to save them, and divides the 
glory with the local Fourth of July orators 
with a suitable poem. His magnum opus is 
an elementary chemistry in verse for use in 
schools. He had a chubby, rubicund face and 
a head of iron grey curls which shook as he 

44 



THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 

laughed. 

The Barbers and Pennlmans are kind to 
me, but they no longer offer me an apple and 
a cake. Perhaps they like me and think they 
can make something of me. Or It may be on 
my mother's account, whose kind heart and 
sweet, winning face every body knows ex- 
cept herself, for she Is as humble and modest 
as she Is good. Admitted to their houses 
I discover new manners; their clothing is 
different and their rooms have unfamiliar 
furnishings that show no sign of usage. I 
sit very straight In a soft-seated chair as I 
have been instructed, but do not know what 
to do with my hands and can hardly keep 
them out of my pockets. My heels secretly 
feel for the rung of the chair; it has none, 
which seems curious, and it is a puzzle I 
take home with me. These superior neigh- 
bors of ours speak of books, of music and 
persons and places unknown to me. They 
have been as far as Mendon, beyond I imag- 
ine, for I hear the names Boston and Provi- 
dence. It Incites me to know all that they 
know, and I begin to make comparisons, to 
find that one house differs from another, 
that one person differs from another 

45 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

and to choose between them. All things 
draw or repel me. I have glimmerings 
of an ideal, of something less or more 
than is present and actual. A cent, 
that formerly made me rich, now makes 
me poor. I am not so eager for playmates; 
there are moments when they seem mere ba- 
bies, and our sports dull and trivial. The 
sweet child whose frock falls only to her 
knees, whose wide white pantalets almost 
touch her red shoes, with whom I have 
romped for three summers alternately teas- 
ing and caressing, yet always with the lofty 
port of protection and superiority, no longer 
satisfies my heart or gratifies my pride. I try 
to avoid her. She follows me about meekly, 
confused by my coldness. Her long-lashed 
eyes look at me distrustfully and are suffused 
with tears when I decline to play. What do 
I care? My heart is harder than a stone. 
Moreover, I have transferred my affections; 
I am in love with a woman of twenty-three, 
seventeen years older than myself. To be 
with her makes me perfectly happy; I am 
transformed, I am humble to slavishness and 
my manner toward this enchanting being is 
precisely like that of my discarded maid to- 

46 



THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 

ward me. Thus is she avenged, for I too 
have to suffer when unnoticed. My new 
love's smile, (for she only deigns to smile 
upon me and seldom speaks), enthralls me, 
I cannot express myself; I follow her about 
like a dog. 

There is a plant called Boy Love because 
it never comes to fruition, seldom blooms. It 
Is almost extinct save In old neglected house- 
yards. My gardener allows me to cultivate 
It in an uncherlshed corner of one of her beds. 
I can never pass it without plucking a spray 
of Its fragrant leaves. Its very smell is of 
other days and ancient gardens. The fashion- 
able rose cannot endure it. I mean sometime 
to disprove Its Impotence and entice it into 
flowering for the encouragement of little boy 
lovers that they be not ashamed of their in- 
fantile, ardent attachments but bravely con- 
fess them as I do. 

This phase of young life passes like so 
many others. How swiftly they pass ! and 
must, since we have in ten years to rehearse 
all the parts for the next fifty. In due time 
my girl playmate and also the young woman 
were married, and meeting long afterward 
we found nothing In common, not even a 

47 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

memory. One had forgotten that we ever 
played together; the other laughed incredu- 
lously at the boyish attachment. At length I 
too forget these mere matrons; I remember 
only the little maid and the coquette of 
twenty-three. 

As one climbs the sides of a mountain it 
lowers its crest, but the view becomes ex- 
tended. The hills of Mendon diminished as 
often as I climbed other hills or succeeded 
in reaching the topmost spires of taller trees. 
They were no longer so lofty, so distant, so 
infatuating. The walls of my world were 
expanded on two sides, the south and the 
west. All unknown lands were on the north. 
China was there, which to me was a place 
where they did nothing but fly kites; so much 
I remembered from my geography book; 
there too was Boston, merely a place 
where we sold our huckleberries in sum- 
mer. I had been as far as Mendon 
and found that the world did not end 
there, nor were there any hills even. 
They had moved themselves to the next hori- 
zon whitherto my fancies had flown. Disil- 
lusions increased with my height. A yard- 
stick no longer measured to the top of my 

48 



THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 

head ; the score Is nowmarked upon the jambs 
of the cellar door, and sometimes I cheat 
with yarn balls In the heels of my boots. I 
cannot grow fast enough to keep pace with 
my ambition. When I am larger, when I 
am a man, then I shall — could one but re- 
cover the predicate of those phrases! There 
Is a cell In my brain as yet filled with nothing; 
but there Is commotion, an eddy, like that of 
the vortlcel which Is drawing thither Its des- 
tined deposits. The things that draw me are 
also themselves moving toward me. The 
cell Is In time filled, emptied and filled again 
and again. Particles of this and that re- 
main. Who can predict what will be the 
permanent deposit? 

The Mendon hills and those, rising con- 
tinually beyond, caused me many a heart 
break, many disillusions, journeylngs, path- 
less and lampless, many apprenticeships to 
unprofitable masters. I explored the un- 
known because It was unknown and because I 
knew not what I wanted. There was disap- 
pointment wherever the pursuit ended. I 
would go on— never arriving. "Stay, thou 
art so fair", Is not the wish of boys. The 
mountains were not so high, the ocean not so 

49 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

vast, the cities not so Immense, no good so 
good as anticipated. My heart hungered for 
the Impossible before It had attained the 
possible; for the fruitage of things be- 
fore the plough and the hardened hand; 
In fine, before reckoning with those forces 
which determine the happiness and miser- 
ies of life. But there Is compensation 
for every disappointment and mistaken 
dream of childhood and youth. I cher- 
ish them fondly as the early drama of 
my life, in which, now a spectator, I see the 
small actor performing his mimic part with 
mingled feelings of amusement, censure or 
sympathy. When the curtain rises I am once 
more on my own side of the Mendon hills; 
the walls of that first world enclose and pro- 
tect me. Here I again recover my first sense 
of nature and the existence of other beings; 
here I discern the Inward foreshadowlngs of 
what was to attract and mould me through 
life. 



50 



SHADOWS AND ECHOES 

TWO things In nature Impressed 
me more than any others In my 
childhood. One was the appar- 
ent motion of the moon, when 
I tried to walk or run away from 
It. To see It keep an equal pace with me, 
moving when I moved, stopping when I 
stopped, sometimes vexed me and more of- 
ten amused me. The heavens are young 
when we are, close and companionable; they 
come down to the earth not more than two 
miles from where we stand. I tried many 
experiments with the moon, when It was full, 
to see If I could not outrun the bright and 
tricksy traveller. My efforts were vain and 
only Increased my wonder. I never spoke of 
It nor required an explanation from my eld- 
ers. Children ask no questions regarding 
those simple operations of nature which they 
first observe. They remain deep In their si- 
lent consciousness. Such as they do ask are su- 
perficial, and are either a passing impulse of 
a dawning social nature or are Inspired by 
parents and teachers. I have observed that 

51 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

when they ask these questions they care noth- 
ing and remember naught of the answers. 
What is deepest in them is growing in si- 
lence; it is not yet formed into conceptions, 
and has no language. The difference between 
the spoken questions of children and their im- 
pressions, as yet so undefined, is like that be- 
tween pictures of the snapshot camera and 
the astronomer's plates which, for hours, 
gather and develop the figure of some dis- 
tant, unseen star. 

My other childish observation was of 
shadows, especially my own, cast upon the 
ground by a low afternoon sun. This never 
vexed or puzzled me as did the outfooting 
moon. An old play says that the shadows 
of things are better than the things them- 
selves; and Pindar places man at two re- 
moves from them. But indeed shadows 
pleased me before I knew of the hu- 
miliating comparisons poets and prophets had 
made; and sometimes more than the real sub- 
stances with which I was familiar — trees, 
brooks and pastures. In the shadow of my- 
self were the flattering length and size which 
I coveted, the huge man; for I wished above 
all other things to become a man as fast as 

52 



SHADOWS AND ECHOES 

possible that I might do and have the things 
which men do and have. These as I remem- 
ber were trousers, long-legged boots, two 
pieces of pie, to sit up in the evening and 
never to go to school again ; for I was always 
driven to bed and went unwillingly to my 
books. Many were the subterfuges by 
which I escaped my lessons, a lost book or a 
headache; and how I rejoiced in the storms 
which made it impossible to send me the long 
mile through snow or rain. I remember only 
one evening when I was allowed to sit up as 
long as I wished, my parents, having gone to 
see a man hung in Dedham, one of the fes- 
tive occasions in old Norfolk County, the 
boy was left in charge of a sister. I remem- 
ber it chiefly because my sister read to me 
that evening John Gilpin's Ride. It was the 
first, and for a long time, the only poem in 
which I took any interest. Gilpin on his 
horse, his cloak and bottles twain visualized 
themselves before me so clearly that they 
still remain more vivid than what I read yes- 
terday. 

But my shadow, ah, that was quite enough 
to satisfy my most ardent longings. More- 
over I seemed able to step on it, to lengthen 

53 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

or shorten it, to make it assume strange gro- 
tesque shapes; in a word I could play with 
it. This I could not do with such objects as 
trees, house, barn and fences; or rather there 
was no such response from them as from the 
shadow. 

Echo was the only other direct responsive 
thing I found in nature as yet. Echo is the 
shadow of sound. Echo and shadow are 
brother and sister; irresponsible children of 
nature who love to sport and play pranks 
with matter and make men doubt their own 
senses. I knew several of the dwelling 
places of echo; one in chief was between a 
large barn and a deep wood, and others at 
different points on Beaver Pond. Never 
would they return the individual voice; all 
came reflected back as echo's own, neither 
mine nor that of my companions; only now 
louder or less, more distinct or faint. It had 
a lonely, plaintive, even melancholy tone, 
which the Greeks explained was in conse- 
quence of an unfortunate love affair with the 
beautiful Narcissus. It sulked, and hiding in 
a cave, never spoke again unless first spoken 
to. I could hardly believe that echo was not 
the voice of a human being. To satisfy my- 

54 



SHADOWS AND ECHOES 

self I examined the barn and forest for some 
mocking man or boy. Was not this better 
than the explanations which never explain 
to children? And who can expound a shadow? 
When I once heard a minister exclaim that 
man Is but a shadow I understood him lit- 
erally and was glad In my little heart think- 
ing only of Its size and nimble movements. 

Echo and shadow hint of other things In 
nature besides solid matter and that which 
can be appropriated by any machinery or re- 
solved by any chemical yet discovered. These 
and sounds and perfumes also remind us that 
the world was made for admiration and 
amusement as well as for use. I believe that 
the Creator was thinking, when He planned 
It, as much of little boys and girls and poets 
as of the husbandman and craftsman. Echo 
loves to Imitate our voice as much as we love 
to hear it; and shadows love to caricature our 
forms that we may laugh and even assist 
them; for if you stretch an arm between the 
sun and a snowbank shadow aids you with Its 
comic pencil. It is no wonder the sad ghosts 
throw no shadow; there must be sunshine, 
life and joy or you cannot even living cast a 
pleasant one. I sometimes more admire the 

55 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

shadows In a painting than the figures or the 
scene. The imperfect landscape of the 
Greeks excused itself from observing none in 
the sacred enclosures of the temples of Zeus. 
The light must find no impediment in the un- 
substantial matter of divine beings. 

It was pleasant in my afternoon rambles 
to see my form projected over places where 
I could not follow; on the other shore of a 
stream and along stony fields good for noth- 
ing but a crop of shadows. Thus by my 
shadow I triumphed over space, and when it 
came to a vanishing point, I imagined it still 
extending itself to some neighbor's door or 
into the next town. My eyes could not fol- 
low it nor my feet; yet something in me ac- 
companied it and gave me a sense of magic 
power. An unconscious feeling for beauty 
in things of earth began to draw me away 
from houses and children and to make me 
lonely. I found playthings I could not carry in 
my pocket. These have remained with me 
all my life. The path we leave behind us is 
the one we oftenest tread. One little brook 
still flows through my heart. I feel it, I 
hear its smothered ripple, not meant for hear- 
ing, and I smell its meadowy fragrance. 

56 



SHADOWS AND ECHOES 

I treated matter with the perfect frank- 
ness and credulity which passes away with 
childhood; and she rewarded me with visions 
and illusions that are withheld from self- 
guarded and discreet manhood. I knew not 
then that shadows were the scoffing synonym 
for all unsubstantial vanities and day-dreams, 
or that other mystic conception that substance 
itself is but the shadow and reflection of the 
power which created it, or that light itself is 
but the adumbration of God. How good 
it is that the child is ignorant of so many 
things. It leaves room for the existence and 
growth of a mind, of an imagination which, 
in time, shall lead rather than follow the pro- 
cesses of reason; which shall leap before It 
looks, conscious of prescience before proof, 
arriving on wings while the shoestrings are 
being tied. Blessed are the ignorance, the be- 
liefs and the innocency of the country boy. 
For if he can maintain a remnant of these 
Into maturity the world will be more beauti- 
ful; he will idealize his friends and lovers, 
and never be conquered by the untoward cir- 
cumstances and events of his life. The child 
is a plant that blossoms first at the root un- 
derground, like the fringed polygala, and 

57 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

only after a free and natural nurture, again 
blossoms at the top with the same color, the 
same modest beauty. Let the child pur- 
sue shadows and believe them real; let 
him discover their unreality and suffer 
defeats; but he shall not know when he 
is defeated, for still other shadows shall 
allure him to the end of his days. The 
pursuit, not the attainment, is the true 
joy of living. Perilous are the condi- 
tions of attainment. The goal is seldom in 
sight. We are driven on from dream to 
dream, and to awake is to lose the charm of 
existence. No pearl grows in the shell with- 
out the pressure of some irritating substance; 
and no boy becomes a man until he has felt 
the sting of opposition, discouragement, de- 
feat, and has pursued shadows with an un- 
faltering faith. 



58 



SHADOWS AND ECHOES 
SHADOWS 

Phantom of being, Protean face, 
Parasite of rock, of towers and man 
Since sun and matter erst began, 
Fleet vanlsher from our embrace, 
Thy fairy forms the faithful ape 
Of substance; all the landscape 
In thy mimic loom mere woven air 
Where naught is real yet all is fair; 
Taunting us with bold mockeries 
And willing cheats and splendid lies. 
Deceiving all sense save the eyes. 
Flying without wings 
Gigantic o'er the mountain's knees; 
Or of tiniest things 
Etching their wavy images; 
Or playing some fantastic trick 
To please the fancy of a child; 
Or tireless watcher of the sick 
When others are by sleep beguiled. 
Thou follower of sun and moon. 
Gatherer of the undulating mass 
Through which no light may pass, 
Over the whole world darkening soon. 
Or standing steadfast all an afternoon 
Behind some oak tree's ancient crown 

59 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

Until the lingered sun goes down- 
Give to the weary traveller repose 
In thy cool umbrageous tent, 
And to the husbandman, who goes 
To thee by heat and toil forespent. 
Give sleep, and let thy veil his limbs enclose. 



bo 



SHADOWS AND ECHOES 



ECHO 

Echo is mate of shadow and of shade, 
Saying only what is given it to say; 

Hiding in wall or cave or wooded glade, 
Without ideas, sound with sound at play. 

But thou, sweet echo, art my faithful friend; 

For when my simple songs on all ears die 
Thou art responsive to the very end, 

And answerest them with perfect flattery. 



6i 



HOLIDAYS 

IN the small towns of Norfolk County, 
even as late as the middle of the nine- 
teenth century, Christmas was not 
kept as a holiday. The people adhered 
mainly to the Congregational and 
Baptist faiths. Christmas was in some 
way associated with Popish superstitions. 
The Woman in Scarlet was still preached 
against and feared as became the sons 
and daughters of the Puritans. I have 
never forgotten my childish vision of 
this wonderful creature, a vision that connect- 
ed itself with a neighbor's daughter who 
dressed in bright red mousseline-delaine and 
wore an immense hoop, played the fiddle and 
scandalized the community by her manners, 
music and muslin. But the young men were 
all in love with her and she held a nightly 
court in a little brown house in that part of 
the town called Hard Scrabble. She took the 
pick of her admirers, was married at eigh- 
teen, bore what Aeschylus calls the "divine 
load" in fifteen travails, fourteen sons and 
one daughter, and lived to play her fiddle to 

62 



HOLIDAYS 

more than thirty grandchildren. The com- 
munity at length became reconciled to her, al- 
though she continued to wear to the end of 
her life red gowns and a bulging hoop — the 
women gossips now said to conceal her usual 
condition. To me she was and is the Scarlet 
Woman, an inhabitant not of Rome or Baby- 
lon, but of a town where I am the supreme 
pontiff, a town not made of galvanized iron 
nor stone nor brick, but weather-stained 
boards with sometimes a touch of red paint. 

Doubtless many people sigh for the days 
when Christmas was not, for it has become a 
burden in its secular observances, a game of 
give and take. I never heard of the day in my 
childhood. Scarcely will this be beheved, so 
difficult is it to realise that a present universal 
custom, and one so linked with religious senti- 
ment, has not always existed; nevertheless it 
is true. If I were relating something that hap- 
pened yesterday, or the day before, I should 
not be much chagrined to be disputed and to 
find myself in error; but the memory of the 
events of childhood is authentic and indis- 
putable. There was no Christmas for chil- 
dren in Bellingham, or I should remember it 
as vividly as I do Fast Day, Thanksgiving, 

63 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

Fourth of July and Town Meeting Day. The 
last named was the first holiday of the year 
for the male population, occurring on the 
first Tuesday in March. It was a day when the 
solid men of the town came to the front and 
sat in high seats, dignified and important; 
when the less solid or, more gay got drunk, 
and the boys played games about the town- 
house, and ate as many buns as they had cents 
to buy. The town-house of Bellingham was 
an old Universalist church whose society had 
been uprooted and driven away by the ser- 
mons, prayers and persecutions of the Bap- 
tist brethern and sisters. It must have been 
an ancient building as it had a high pulpit, a 
sounding board still higher and square pews. 
I used to go in when hungry to buy the 
buns, which were on sale in one of these 
square pews fitted up as a small shop, 
boards being laid on the top rail, and 
the high seats forming shelves for the 
display of eatables. I recall only the 
buns with distinctness, buns with three 
large plums sticking out of their shiny 
red tops, which afforded the greatest return 
to a hungry boy for the trifling sum he had to 
expend. These plums deceived me into the 

64 



HOLIDAYS 

belief that there were more Inside and some- 
times I did find one lost In the air holes of the 
sponge-like cake. But the bun was sweet and 
that was enough, sweetened with white sugar 
too, a rare flavor In those days. I write white 
sugar but Its current name was loaf sugar. 
It came In cone-shaped packages wrapped In 
heavy chocolate colored paper, and this paper 
was used by women for dyeing. These pack- 
ages were hung up over the counters of all 
country stores. The sale was small as It was 
expensive and limited In use, chiefly to the 
sick room, wedding and funeral feasts. A 
trader would buy enough to last him for a 
long time; consequently the packages hung in 
their places year after year, becoming dirty 
and fly specked. But the inside was well 
protected with soft white paper, and, when 
opened, revealed its dazzling crystals. I liked 
It almost as much as candy and I rarely had 
a bit of the precious article. Brown sugar 
and molasses were the common household 
sweets; bread and molasses an excellent lunch 
for hungry boys always crying for something 
to eat and never filled. 

The town meeting bun Is a thing of the 
past. When I ventured Into the town house 

65 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

I stepped very softly and felt an exceeding 
awe. It was a strange sensation to be mov- 
ing about among men whose legs were as 
long as I was tall, and, generally, as unno- 
ticed as If I did not exist. Sometimes a kind- 
ly old man would look down, put his hand on 
my head and say: "You'll be a man before 
you know It;" or another would vary the ex- 
pression with, '^you'll be a man before your 
mother." Both meant the boy had grown 
since the last town meeting. I have, 
since those days, known town meetings from 
the standpoint of a man and voter and have 
even taken part In their counsels; yet I have 
had always more Interest In them as an ob- 
server than as an active participant. Per- 
haps this was because I was not an office 
seeker. I have revolved schemes for town 
Improvements a whole year and taken them 
Into the March meeting only to have them 
smashed In a moment. In general at the 
meetings In rural districts, where there Is lit- 
tle business to transact and the day Is before 
them, the citizens like to hear discussion, es- 
pecially If the disputants get Into a passion 
or Interject a little fun. Then everybody 
takes a hand and the main question Is so con- 

66 



HOLIDAYS 

fused and lost that even the moderator can- 
not restate It. Party spirit rages, old feuds 
come to life and men remember all the ugly 
doings and sayings of their neighbors and are 
hot to pay off old scores and get even, as 
they say. Suddenly, at the height of the 
wrangle, the whole matter Is dropped, peace 
reigns and the regular business Is resumed as 
If nothing had happened. These tempests 
clear the air for a year, and everybody Is In 
better humor having discharged his accumu- 
lation of grudges and animosities. I have 
heard closer speech, more sententious, 
more convincing and in more direct and 
forcible language in town meeting than 
from any other forum. Men are not so 
much ambitious of eloquence as they are to 
carry their point. There is often more fun, 
wit and sarcasm as well as logic than goes 
with more pretentious and popular rostrums. 
When the town-meeting Is abolished freedom 
will have lost her humble but most powerful 
ally. When the town grows to a city all is 
lost; for our freedom and Individual rights de- 
pend on direct and individual participation 
in public affairs. Otherwise, all Is com- 
promise, averages, irresponsibility and mere 

67 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

chance how affairs turn out. The larger the 
city, the easier It is for rascals to rule. 

The town meeting was succeeded in April 
by Fast Day, appointed always for a Thurs- 
day. For some unknown reason Thursday in 
New England was an almost sacred day, a 
sort of secular Sabbath. Thanksgiving was 
invariably on that day of the week; also eve- 
ning prayer meetings and usually religious 
conventions, quarterly meetings, Sunday- 
school conferences and weddings. There is 
an ancient proverb which says "Thursday 
come, the week is gone;" for farmers 
and laboring people it was uphill to 
that day, and an easy and quick descent 
to the end of the week. By Friday, 
or, at least, Saturday we could go a-fish- 
ing or visiting; or to the store for some 
Sunday snuff, tobacco or "West Injy" goods. 
Work relaxed a little, the strain to finish a 
job was less, we went to bed and arose some- 
what later. Boys were not generally com- 
pelled to attend the Fast Day religious ser- 
vice. It had ceased to be as strictly kept as 
formerly. In villages and centers of towns 
there was customarily a match game of ball, 
very unlike the present base ball. Boys played 

68 



HOLIDAYS 

with boys and men with men. The New 
England bootmakers, of whom there were 
some in most villages, were the leaders in 
these games. Fast Day was above all days 
the established one for shooting and burning 
powder. Why, it would be hard to discover, 
as it was too late for winter game and too 
early for any other. However, it was 
fun and made men and boys jolly and im- 
portant to roam through the woods and fields 
with a gun over the shoulder, for that was 
still the soldiery way of carrying it. It was 
more often fired at a mark than at bird or 
beast. Powder had to be exploded to give 
expression to the holiday exuberance and a 
noise made, game or no game. I suffered 
dreadfully for several years in not being able 
to have a gun, and my misery grew acute at 
the approach of Fast Day. I had to content 
myself with percussion caps, powder and lead 
cannon. The latter I made myself and when 
I had no lead I made them of wood. These 
I fired as long as the ammunition held out 
and then with one mighty charge I would 
burst them into fragments, and Fast Day 
was over for me. 

As Fourth of July approached, my chief 

69 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

concern was to get possession of twenty-five 
cents. This was the traditional limit of a 
boy's spending money for that day. He must 
save or earn it, or expect a miracle. How to 
save on nothing a year was an early problem 
of mine; and as to earning, my services, even 
then, were not in demand, and I cannot re- 
member ever to have been hired to be a good 
boy. My mother had a cheaper way and a 
more effectual. Such is the miserable history 
of poor boys and poor mothers. Thus it was 
that I rarely had the twenty-five cents ; it was 
oftener a dime. Even that seemed large 
enough to fill one pocket and buy a world of 
things. To think over all the single articles 
that itwould purchase was to possess them for 
that moment, and I never had a truer owner- 
ship in my life than that which was enjoyed 
in these imaginary possessions. Strangely 
enough, I could so feel my own what I knew 
the dime or the quarter would purchase, that 
I was content not to spend it at all. Yet a 
day would come when some sudden impulse 
or appetite would snatch it away from me; 
then with what penitence was I overcome; 
for, as soon as I had a thing in my hand it 
ceased to have the least value; if eaten, it 

70 



HOLIDAYS 

did not fill me; If a plaything, I soon tired 
and then hated It; and only Its destruction 
gave me one passing moment of joy. 

Occasionally Fourth of July was celebrated 
in military fashion; the train-band marched 
to the music of drum and fife accompanied by 
a procession of urchins. The crowning ex- 
ercise was the firing of a salute by the whole 
company. It made every boy wish to be a 
soldier as soon as possible. Then the muskets 
were stacked under a great elm tree from a 
limb of which swung the sign, *'E. Thayer, 
Inn" and we all took a free drink, In consid- 
eration of the dinner which was to follow at 
a shilling a head. 

The more common observance of the day 
was of a much milder character, Sunday- 
school picnics. In which the churches of towns 
near each other united. We went to Mendon, 
and next year Mendon came to us. These 
picnics consisted of a little religion, much 
lemonade and cake, followed next day by 
headache. The day ended with a thunder- 
storm when the picnic was in Mendon; such 
was the common saying. Thunder storms 
In the night were the dread of my mother's 
household, especially on the Fourth of July 

71 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

when already excited by the day's events. 
We invariably expected the end of the 
world so much prophesied by neighbor 
White. If the storm came on In the daytime 
the whole family went to bed and covered up 
their heads. For my part, I longed to be 
out of doors in the rain, and enjoyed nothing 
so much as the drops falling on my bare head, 
and in splashing about through the puddles 
with bare feet. I was exhilarated by the 
sound of thunder, but lightning terrified me 
and seemed to throw me down. It was in an 
August thunderstorm that my father lost his 
life In an attempt to save his shocks of rye 
from ruin, which was Indeed the end of the 
world for his family. It was no wonder that 
my mother and sisters were alarmed when the 
black clouds and sultry air came over the 
Mendon hills. I was too young to heed the 
menace or to be reminded of the domestic 
catastrophe and sorrow. Nature, rain or 
shine, winter or summer, river, pasture, 
clouds, woods, flowers, berries, apples, birds, 
were my playthings from which I was learn- 
ing to find the images and equivalents in my- 
self. Lying on my back and watching the 
summer clouds race across the sky gave me 

72 



HOLIDAYS 

my first comparison and attachment of a 
natural object to a conscious mental concep- 
tion. I arrested those clouds in their flight 
across the blue, and whether they went sail- 
ing on or sank below the horizon I still saw 
them, and their images remained firmly fixed 
in my mind. 

It was a rare chance when I was allowed to 
spend Fourth of July in Milford, the little 
metropolis of our region. There the celebra- 
tions were on a grander scale; the local militia 
company gathered to itself others from the 
border towns, and besides fife and drum, a 
whole band of music marched at the head of 
the companies, and a cannon on the town com- 
mon saluted the Fourth of July rising and 
setting sun and the noon of the day. There 
was probably an oration in the church but I 
had no ear for speech when my eyes were 
filled with seeing; for there were shows of 
various kinds in booths about the common 
and in the town hall. How to make twenty- 
five cents take me into all was beyond my 
arithmetic; so I contented myself with spend- 
ing ten cents on an exhibition of Albino chil- 
dren, white-haired, ivory-skinned and pink- 
eyed. Another ten cents admitted me to a 

73 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

collection of dwarfs and giants, the dwarfs 
mounted on the shoulders or heads of the 
giants. The remaining five cents let me Into 
the best show of all, a learned pig that played 
cards and performed amusing tricks. For a 
good while I wished for nothing so much as a 
learned pig. But now my money was gone, 
and I was hungry as only a boy on a holiday 
can be. I had walked three miles to the 
town, and there were three miles now between 
me and my mother's cupboard. When I ar- 
rived there I feasted for the remainder of the 
day and went to bed still hungry. The next 
few days were flat and languid. In all my 
boyhood pleasures and excitements I suffered 
Intensely from these reactions. I tormented 
the family by persistent teaslngs to go some- 
where, or to do something. "Go play, go read 
your book, go see what Aunt Chloe Is doing," 
they would say. How could I fill the void 
with such trivial pastimes with a Fourth of 
July cannon ringing In my ears and the 
learned pig's red eyes following me? I 
wanted all days to be Fourth of July, and 
for a while I made them so with a wooden 
gun, a General Washington paper chapeau 
and a tin pan for a brass band. At length the 

74 



HOLIDAYS 

days gradually fell Into their usual tenor and 
I became reconciled to such amusements and 
mischiefs as my two playmates, George Jen- 
nison and Harry Thurber, and myself could 
Invent. 

We now began to look forward to the time 
of ice and snow. Meanwhile Thanksgiving 
day is near. Little as It meant to me, It was 
nevertheless a break in the usual order of the 
days. I have read many cheerful accounts of 
the Thanksgiving home gatherings — the 
feastlngs and the frolic in which the turkey 
and plum pudding appeared to be treated al- 
most like divinities. But never did I know, 
In boyhood, the family reunion, the turkey 
or the pudding, so that these gatherings and 
dinners are to me pictures and I regard them 
as I do the feasts of Homer's heroes, pleasant 
to read of and to imagine. Some of our 
neighbors celebrated the day In the customary 
manner and no doubt acknowledged the 
goodness of the Divine Providence as enjoin- 
ed by the Governor's proclamation. But the 
bounty of the Divine Providence never trav- 
elled by our lonely road, nor left a turkey or 
pudding at the door of the little Red House. 
Saddest of all her sad days I think my mother 

75 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

felt It to be, seeing the bounties and friends 
at the tables of others and unable to make 
her own worthy of the occasion. She some- 
times spared an aged and unprofitable hen 
from her scanty flock and made us each a 
custard in an earthen cup. For that day she 
brought out her only silver, six tea spoons, 
and spread on her round table her only table 
cloth, hand-woven and white as snow. In the 
evening we parched corn over the hearth fire. 
My mother sat at one corner of the fireplace 
and by her side a tall light stand, her candle, 
her Bible and her knitting. At bedtime she 
read a chapter aloud, and kneeling, made a 
low, plantive prayer, the burden of which was 
always thankfulness and trust. I remember 
not the words, but the tone still sounds in my 
ear. Thus returned from year to year my 
four holidays until I was old enough to find 
the road that led from the town and on which 
I now love to travel back and indulge a holi- 
day of memories. 



76 



THE AMPUTATION 

ASIDE from the formal and ap- 
pointed holidays, the events and 
days that a country community 
most enjoyed were not numer- 
ous; yet their infrequency and 
unexpectedness added a certain amount of 
zest to its monotonous annals. A fire, an ac- 
cident, a death, a raising, an engagement, a 
fight, a new minister, even Miss Penniman's 
new style of gown from Boston were not un- 
welcome excitements. They furnished food 
for talk, for wonder, discussion and scandal. 
Although there was a certain terror con- 
nected with the unusual event I am about to 
describe, yet this did not deter me from look- 
ing forward to it as a kind of holiday. 

For a long time it had been rumored that 
our neighbor, Amos Partridge, would have 
to lose his leg. He had what was called a 
white swelling on his knee. Besides his 
house, Amos Partridge had a large barn and 
a shop, where, in winter, he bottomed boots. 
The bottomer of boots sat on a low bench and 
did most of his work on his lap and knee. 

77 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

It was thought that the primary cause of 
Amos' trouble arose from a slight blow upon 
his knee as he sat at his work, increased by 
subsequent constant pressure upon the spot 
by the strap which held the boot in place. 
He worked as long as he was able, and for 
some time before the operation, he was 
obliged to use a crutch in passing from 
his shop to his house. The swelling 
grew steadily in size, and became more 
and more troublesome although every 
remedy then known to New England 
therapeutics had been tried, including all 
the nostrums of the neighborhood, plas- 
ters, poultices, washes and prayers; for 
Amos was much beloved by his neighbors, 
mostly Methodists, to which sect he himself 
belonged. He was about thirty-five years old, 
tall and large-framed, light-haired, full- 
bearded and with blue eyes, a pure Saxon 
type of a man. His forehead was high and 
narrow and much work and suffering had 
ploughed untimely furrows upon it. His 
house stood close by the roadside, in a field 
between two pieces of woodland. It was 
small, one-storied, the only unusual thing 
about it being that it was painted white, as was 

78 



THE AMPUTATION 

also the neat fence which enclosed a tiny space 
in front almost touching the road. This 
enclosure was in summer a tangle of cinna- 
mon roses, lilacs, sweet-william, bouncing- 
Bet and other common flowers which propa- 
gate and harvest themselves. A narrow 
gravelled walk, upon which the flowers con- 
stantly encroached, led to the front door — 
a useless door, generally, as no one ever 
thought of entering it. There were two 
rooms on either side of this door; one, the 
family sitting room, the other, the sacred 
country parlor with the usual hair-cloth cov- 
ered furniture and home-made rugs in bright 
colors and quaint patterns. There was a gilt 
mirror too, the upper third of which was 
opaque, and upon it was painted a 
one-masted vessel with impossible sails set 
straight from stem to stern, which helps me 
to recall the room and much of the interior 
of the house. I had never seen so fine a pic- 
ture; nor had I ever seen a vessel of any kind. 
It was wonderful. I never tired of looking 
at it although I had seen it many times as the 
room was opened for prayer meetings, which 
my mother attended regularly, taking me 
with her. How well I recall those meetings, 

79 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

which sobered me for life. Not that any 
spoken words impressed me, for I understood 
nothing of what was said or sung; but there 
was a sadness, a suppression in the air, as of 
the valley of Jehosaphat. The stillness too, 
that Intense hush which often occurred be- 
tween the remarks and prayers of the brethren 
and sisters, filled me with a nameless, shrink- 
ing fear. Had I been old enough, conversion 
would have been easy as the only means of 
escape from those terrible silences. My usual 
relief was in clinging to my mother's hand 
which gave me a sense of protection from I 
knew not what; or in looking at the vessel 
In the mirror and sailing away to other 
worlds. Under that sail I visited all the 
neighboring Inland towns whose names and 
nothing more I knew — Mllford, Medway, 
Mendon and Hopklnton, the utmost bound 
of my little world— beyond Hopklnton, noth- 
ing. 

At length there came a day when Amos 
Partridge could work no longer; the pain In 
his knee became too excruciating to be en- 
dured. The surgeon was summoned and a 
date determined for an amputation. The 

neighborhood was Informed and nothing else 

80 



THE AMPUTATION 

was talked or thought of during the pre- 
ceeding days. The chances of Amos surviv- 
ing the operation were discussed; for it was 
before the days of anaesthetics and the science 
of surgery had not then made the removal of 
a limb the least of its triumphs. Most of the 
neighbors, especially the women, took a hope- 
less view of the result. Preparations were 
made much resembling those for a funeral. 
My mother told me she was going to the 
amputation, and as she never left me at home 
when she went abroad, I knew I should go 
too. But this did not oppress me, not nearly 
as much as the thought of a prayer meeting. 
A dim sensation of something extraordinary 
about to happen filled me with excitement. 
Yet, on the whole, it was an emotion of joy. 
The momentous day of the amputation ar- 
rived. I could harly restrain my Impatience. 
It was a calm, soft afternoon In early spring 
when my mother and I set out for the house 
of Amos Partridge; not however, before my 
mother had been to her chamber, and, on her 
knees, offered a silent prayer. She ap- 
peared very serious and silent on the way. 
Could she be Ignorant of the pleasure I was 
anticipating? I danced along by her side; 

8i 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

hardly feeling the earth beneath my feet; 1 
was already at the scene of expected festivity. 
I noticed that mymother carried a fan. It was 
not a hot day and I wondered much what the 
fan was for. We arrived at the house where 
there was already a considerable assemblage 
of the neighbors and friends from a distance. 
Horses were fastened to trees, fences and the 
sides of the barn, just as on Sunday at the 
meeting-house or at the annual town-meeting. 
The small boy was there in numbers, but 
only a few girls. Alas, for the small boy! 
He was not permitted to play near the house 
nor to make the least noise. Instead of a 
holiday, for him, it turned out a more seri- 
ous affair than the usual Puritan Sabbath. Bit- 
ter was my disappointment. My mother, as 
she left me to go into the house, warned me 
to keep very still and be a good boy. Ac- 
cordingly I remained under the window of 
the room in which the operation was to be 
performed. The windows were wide open, 
and I could see and hear all that was said and 
done. I had a view of my mother and two 
other women standing by the bedside of 
Amos, fanning him. I could see the face of 

the sufferer, pale, emaciated and troubled. 

82 



THE AMPUTATION 

Presently I heard the voice of the minister, 
and looking toward the foot of the bed, I saw 
opened before him the great family Bible 
from which he was reading. From the fre- 
quent recurrence of the words boils and af- 
flictions I think it must have been some chap- 
ter in Job that he had selected as suitable for 
the occasion. After the Scriptures the minis- 
ter made a long prayer. 

Then the dreadful preparations began. I 
saw the bed-clothing pulled back and the dis- 
eased limb exposed; it was twice its natural 
size. The surgeon was the once famous Dr. 
Miller, of Franklin, reputed the seventh son 
of a seventh son, some extraordinary gift in 
surgery being credited to such a descent. In 
his day he performed all the surgical opera- 
tions in that part of Massachusetts and the 
bordering towns of Rhode Island. Spread 
out on a small table at his right hand were 
his intruments, whose names I did not know, 
but they interested me immensely. What 
would I not have given for one of those 
dainty polished saws or keen knives with 
handsome handles ! The room was partly 
filled with neighbors, mostly women, ready 
to lend their aid to the surgeon and to com- 

83 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

fort the patient, whose family sat weeping In 
an adjoining room. Amos' eyes were now 
closed and his mouth set firm. As the tourni- 
quet was twisted tighter and tighter the lines 
In his brow grew deeper. He breathed hard 
and a moan, the only one, escaped him as 
the knife went through the outer skin. It was 
not long before the sound of the saw came 
through the open wIndow\ The operation 
was over and the leg had taken Its last step 
with Its fellow. It was carried away Into 
the barn for dissection; we heard with awe 
that Amos felt a faint sensation of pain when 
the knives and probes were searching for 
the hidden disease, as If the severed limb still 
remembered Its possessor. 

Subsequently the remains of the leg were 
burled In Amos' garden, which gave rise to 
some questionings In this pious and scrupulous 
community as to whether It ought not to hav^e 
been placed In the graveyard. But Amos 
said that he did not own a lot yet, and when 
he died, he should not need his old leg to wel- 
come him to his grave. 

The operation proved successful. In a 
short time Amos was up with the empty pan- 
taloon fastened back and the stump of the 

84 



THE AMPUTATION 

leg encased in a thick leather protector. As 
he had used crutches for some time before the 
amputation he soon learned to accommodate 
himself to their new use. He could not now 
walk long distances, so the weekly prayer 
meetings were generally appointed at his 
house. He became what was called among 
Methodists a class-leader; he took the lead- 
ing part in all the private religious gather- 
ings and never failed in his opening prayer 
to thank the Lord for bringing him safely 
through his peril. ''It was Thy hand that 
held the knife", he would exclaim, ''yea, it 
was"; and all the brethren said, amen. 

There was, in the little community of 
which Amos Partridge was the central and 
pathetic figure, a sincere belief in the near- 
ness and activity of Heaven in its every day 
affairs. It rendered them serious, careful 
and slightly superstitious. It was also true, 
however, that these tendencies sometimes 
seemed to create antagonism and a rebellious 
spirit in the young men. We children, from 
the same causes, were timid, afraid of the 
dark, afraid of everything; or, it may be, 
these very, nameless terrors of the night, of 
wild beasts and the forests, together with re- 

85 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

actions from fancied escapes were the best 
stimulants and rustic guardians of the Imag- 
ination—the primitive Muses of the Belllng- 
ham boy. 



86 



COUNTRY FUNERALS 

IF a surgical operation brought with It 
a country lad's holiday, a funeral may 
also be reckoned among the events 
which varied his life, If not with 
gaiety, at least with pleasing diver- 
sion. As a very young child I was present at 
two funerals which for special reasons have 
Impressed themselves upon my memory. I 
had heard much of a widowed sister of my 
father, supposed to be rich; this proved to 
be a fable. Her husband had left the bulk 
of his estate to foreign missions, and only a 
bare support to his wife. As he had ac- 
quired his property by selling liquor It was 
but natural he should wish to make a restitu- 
tion In the land of the heathen. The widow, 
my aunt, lived to an advanced age. When 
she died I accompanied my family to her ob- 
sequies. There I met her other young 
nephews and nieces besides the children of 
the neighborhood. We had a merry time to- 
gether all day except for the hour of the ser- 
vices. There was a general feast served for 
everybody. The children were served at a 

87 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

second table, but there was a plentiful supply 
of goodies reserved for us and no tears to 
check our appetites. At the table we were 
told that our aunt had left us each fifty dol- 
lars. I had never heard of, least of all, seen 
such a sum of money and I conjectured It was 
enough to last the remainder of our lives. 

A great deal takes place at a country fu- 
neral characteristic of the kindly as well as 
the weaker side of rustic men and women. 
There Is much bustle and subdued cheerful- 
ness mingled with awe; conversation Is car- 
ried on In whispers. The chief mourners are 
permitted to be as helpless as they please; 
everything Is done for them; they are treated 
as automatons. They are arranged In ranks 
next to the corpse according to consanguinity. 
Then come the neighbors and those persons 
who love to attend funerals. Children bring 
up the rear and In the hall and doorway lean 
a few men who seem to have no particular re- 
lation to the occasion. The Important per- 
sonage, not excepting the minister. Is the vol- 
unteer undertaker, who for some unknown 
reason, has become the man usually called 
upon to officiate at the exercises. He knows 
his business, and for an hour feels himself 

88 



COUNTRY FUNERALS 

a man of consequence. He is Impartial In 
his attentions; be the dead old or young, 
saint or sinner, he is equally anxious that 
the ceremonies shall be conducted with proper 
decency and order. The rich give him a lit- 
tle more care, as they, perhaps, have rendered 
unto their dead a handsomer outfit for their 
last appearance and farewell journey; such I 
think may have been the case when our dis- 
tinguished neighbors, the Scammels and Pen- 
nlmans passed away. When the minister has 
concluded his remarks and his prayer, gen- 
erally in the most lugubrious words and scrip- 
tural phrases he can muster, the man in 
charge of the funeral, (for country people 
knew no such professional name as under- 
taker), comes briskly forward, and, with 
much ceremony, lifts the lid of the coffin, re- 
arranges some portion of the dress about the 
tace of the dead, gives a searching glance 
over the coffin and then announces: "The 
friends and all those who desire, may now 
view the 'remains' ". This is the most af- 
fecting moment in the ceremony; the last 
parting look which wrings the heart of the 
stoutest, when the women break down and 
are led away blinded by their tears. It Is 

89 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

then that the most indifferent spectator pays 
that beautiful tribute of weeping for those 
he may not have loved, nay, hated or de- 
spised. All the ill is forgotten, the good 
alone remembered. A hearse was hardly 
known In the old days. The coffin was placed 
on a bier of home construction and carried to 
the graveyard on the shoulders of four men. 
The sad funeral procession followed behind, 
the mourners walking two and two and the 
rear made up of a straggling company of 
men, women and children. The minister of- 
fered a farewell prayer at the grave, and In 
summer time, an appropriate hymn was sung, 
Its appropriateness consisting mostly in its 
dismal words and tune. Then the terrible 
moment arrived, the lowering of the coffin 
and the sound of the first earth upon it; for, 
formerly the company awaited this last act. 
This was not the formal dust to dust, a ver- 
bal and figurative act, but some shovelfuls of 
real earth that for a few moments rattled and 
pounded the top of the coffin with a heart- 
rending sound. The minister shook hands 
with the chief mourners, every one took his 
way home, the bier was placed under a tree 
and left to the elements and to be the play- 

90 



COUNTRY FUNERALS 

thing of boys until the feet of them, that 
await at the door to carry out the dead, are 
heard again. 

The next funeral of which I have a recol- 
lection came into my own home. My father 
was dead, dead in the prime of his life, his 
labors and his hopes. Of this event I recall 
only two things, being taken from my play- 
things under an apple tree to the grave, and 
the hard pressure of my hand by my sister as 
the coffin was lowered. This became in after 
years my most pathetic memory as I grew to 
realize what it meant. In that grave all 
our hopes were buried; that I was uncon- 
scious of it must have made the grief of my 
family only the more poignant. At the same 
time I became the object of their greater 
solicitude and affection, and it was a miracle 
that, in a family of women only, I was not 
spoilt by too much indulgence. But while my 
sisters petted and pampered me, my moth- 
er's graver manners and prayers doubtless 
saved me from being too selfish and effem- 
inate. Boys, however, owe chiefly to each 
other their escape from the apron string and 
the softness of nursery manners. 

How empty now seemed the house whence 

91 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

the dear father had gone forever. The prob- 
lems of Hfe offered themselves to my mother 
and sisters with a terrible and crushing real- 
ity. My sisters were old enough and had 
sufficient education to teach the summer terms 
of district schools. My mother boarded the 
winter schoolmaster and planted and cared 
for her garden with her own hands. There 
was a pig in the pen and a flock of hens in 
the sod house. Most of my father's tools 
were sold at public vendue, which brought in 
a little ready money. There was straw to be 
braided at one and a half, sometimes two 
cents per yard; in summer huckleberries were 
picked and sold for three and four cents a 
quart. There was a peddler who made his 
rounds monthly and always put up for the 
night at my mother's house, paying his score 
with a liberal barter of such articles as he 
carried, dry goods, women's shoes and small 
wares. Dresses were made over and over, 
were darned and patched as long as the cloth 
would hold the stitches. My father's clothes 
were cut down for me and I wore the last 
of them in my sixteenth year. My straw 
hats and winter caps were homemade. Every 
year a cousin In business In Woonsocket Falls 

92 



COUNTRY FUNERALS 

presented me with a pair of new boots. There 
was no want In the household because wants 
were few and had been reduced to the last 
limit. I am sure I never went cold or hungry 
although I never had a boughten plaything 
or any of those delicacies which are more 
necessary to children than necessities. 

It is in such circumstances that the friendli- 
ness of country neighbors appears in Its most 
beautiful light. There Is no thought of alms- 
giving on their part, nor a sense of accepting 
charity on the part of the recipients. Benev- 
olence and gratitude were not called upon to 
exchange compliments. Farmer Bosworth is 
going our way and leaves a jug of milk; he 
stops to chat a while and relight his pipe with 
a coal from the hearth. Would you see him 
do It with a boy's eyes? The tongs are too 
long and heavy to bring around to his pipe; 
but with them he pulls out a coal of the right 
size, picks it up between thumb and finger and 
puts it into his pipe bowl. I stand close be- 
side him, and although he doesn't cringe, I 
do, and almost feel my fingers burn. He 
winks out of the corner of his eye at me and 
says, 'Your old daddy Is tough Isn't he?' and 
shows me the end of his thumb calloused and 

93 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

hard as the knurl of white oak; only fire 
could clean it to the original skin. He shakes 
out his blue frock for fear of fire in it, and 
goes his way. There is always something to 
spare by those who have more, to those who 
have less. Whoever kills a fatted cow or a 
pig in early winter sends a portion to the Red 
House; and a load of wood is left in the 
night by some farmer who does not wish his 
right hand to know what his left doeth. 
Money is scarce; but everything else is shared 
with those in distress or in sickness. This is 
so much a matter of course that no one thinks 
of credit or reward. 

In such ways as I have described were the 
widow and her fatherless children saved from 
destitution or loss of their respectable posi- 
tion in the little community. I am sure my 
mother relied with complete trust on the 
scriptural promises made to those in her dif- 
ficult circumstances. If they were fulfilled by 
human agencies, that, also, was the doing of 
the Divine Director of the affairs of the poor. 
In those days men and women were good 
and simple, obedient, not only unto the com- 
mands and examples of their Bible, but also 
to the impulses of their own kind hearts., 

94 



COUNTRY FUNERALS 

Yet the household never again felt the 
highest happiness of domestic life. A soft 
and tranquil resignation took Its place. They 
moved about with a gentler step, speaking in 
subdued tones, more often not at all. They 
had to live out their lives, although It now 
seemed hardly worth the struggle. Tears 
were In their eyes at the table, and one or 
another would arise before the meal was half 
finished. I heard suppressed sobs as I went 
to sleep on a truckle-bed beside my mother, 
who during the day was more composed than 
her daughters. Neighbors soon began to call ; 
there was then a hearty cry in which every- 
body in the room joined. Nothing so relieves 
the pent-up feeling as this, if only a little sym- 
pathy Is present, as it were, to receive and 
consecrate the precious and sacred tribute of 
tears. 

As for me when I returned from the grave 
of my father, unconscious of what had hap- 
pened, I resumed my interrupted play under 
the apple tree. I had never as yet wept for 
anything except the crossing of my will — 
April tears, soon dried. 



95 



MY MOTHER'S RED CLOAK 

MY mother was a silent woman, 
seldom speaking unless first 
addressed, and she never 
asked questions of callers be- 
yond what an extreme courte- 
sy required. I noticed the latter trait when 
a child, in contrast to the custom of most 
people; for to ask questions seemed to be 
the usual and almost only manner of carrying 
on conversation among the neighbors. More- 
over, I was myself pestered beyond endurance 
by a fire of questions whenever I went any- 
where, or anybody came to us. I inherit from 
my mother a great reserve in speech and 
fondness for silence; and, as the latter can 
only be purchased by retirement, I have 
added to silence a love of solitude in which I 
have doubtless too much indulged myself. All 
sorts of suppositions follow a man who retires 
and declines the ambitions of his contemporar- 
ies. By some he is thought a coward or eccen- 
tric; by others he is believed to be a philoso- 
pher. Those of a more indulgent temper 
guess that delicate health or some dis- 

96 



MY MOTHER'S RED CLOAK 

appointment In love, In business or profes- 
sion has driven him away from his kind. 
None of these solutions hits the marks. And 
although I have no wish to relieve myself 
of responsibility for my course of life, still 
less to apologize for it, destiny. In form of 
a woman, my mother, has directed my life 
In spite of reason, the persuasion of friends 
or the allurements of the world — the world 
which Inflicts its just penalities upon him who 
refrains from becoming an actor, who per- 
sists in being a spectator. The paradox of 
my nature Is that I love my kind as much as 
I love solitude and silence. My friendships 
are now sixty years old. My mother also 
enjoyed society although she never sought 
it. She was easily amused, but I never heard 
her laugh aloud; her whole face smiled and 
It was more contagious than the outbursts of 
more demonstrative persons. She listened 
apparently with all her senses and faculties. 
It was this characteristic I imagine, that, 
when outward voices were withdrawn, made 
possible the turning of an inward ear to the re- 
sponses of her soul. In no other way can I 
account for the fact that without education 
or opportunities she became a refined gentle- 

97 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

woman, became Intelligent without books and 
had an Insight and judgment In all matters 
within her sphere, much depended upon by 
her family and acquaintances. She was fem- 
inine to the tips of her fingers, and sympa- 
thetic with distress and misfortune. From 
her scanty cupboard she fed all who asked 
for food. She believed and often said that 
the loaf which Is divided is never consumed. 
Wandering beggars knew her door and were 
never turned away. But, as her house was 
small, and without a man. If they asked for 
shelter, she sent them to the next neighbor. 

Bred In such a quiet atmosphere I was 
usually very silent In my mother's presence. 
When alone on the road, or In the fields, or 
with my playthings I talked to myself a great 
deal ; or rather I addressed inanimate objects 
as If they were living beings, a habit which 
still clings to me, although the voice Is no 
longer needed. My days were full; I found 
everywhere enough to keep my feet moving 
and my hands busy. I was completely filled 
and satisfied with the earth just as I found it 
in the town of Bellingham. When, however, 
evening came on and I had to go into the 
house, everything shrank to the size of the 

98 



MY MOTHER'S RED CLOAK 

room. I became restless and fretful. Hav- 
ing exhausted every amusement which the 
house afforded and, however sleepy, unwill- 
ing to go to bed, I sat down upon a cricket 
at my mother's knee and kept saying, "tell 
me one little story." 

One such evening I recall when the days 
were growing short and shorter and the can- 
dle was lighted at half past four o'clock. It 
was a privilege always granted me to light 
the candle. If no one happened to be look- 
ing I blew it out for the pleasure of relight- 
ing it; for, like other children I loved to play 
with fire and the candles and the open hearth 
gave me ample opportunities. The bellows 
and I were intimate and constant playmates. 
We played many a trick together; sometimes 
stealing up behind one of my sisters and 
blowing into her ear, or going some distance 
away from the candle I made a current of 
air which would sway the candle flame, when 
my mother would exclaim, ''how the wind 
does blow; some door must be open." Then 
my titter would reveal the rogue, who was 
reminded that it was his bedtime. 

But, on the evening to which I have re- 
ferred, I was a good boy having expended 

99 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

my naughtiness during the day. There was 
a still calm throughout the house and the in- 
tense cold had hushed the air over field and 
wood. The candle was alight on the three- 
footed stand and my mother was counting the 
stitches in the setting of a new stocking. As 
usual I was coaxing for a story. Perhaps it 
was the red yarn which reminded my mother 
of her red cloak, or some sudden flash of ten- 
der memories. When she had fairly started 
the stocking so that she could knit without 
counting or looking at her work she said, 
"I had a red cloak once; would you like to 
hear about it?" 

"Oh yes, and tell it long, long, mother." 
"I was a little girl then, so the cloak was 
short, and so the story. Red was the color 
I most admired when I was ten years old. 
It became me, so I thought, for I was almost 
as dark skinned as an Indian. Folks called 
me Widow Thayer's red-winged blackbird 
when I wore my cloak, of which I was very 
proud. It had no sleeves and came down to 
my feet and was closed at the neck with a 
fastening of silk cord braided in a pretty 
pattern. 

I went to meeting in it all one winter, proud 

lOO 



MY MOTHER'S RED CLOAK 

and gay, but never wore It on any other day 
except the Sabbath. At the end of winter It 
was packed away In a great chest where our 
winter clothing was kept In summer with tan- 
sy laid among the garments to prevent moths. 
My red cloak was placed at the bottom of the 
chest and I myself spread an unnecessary 
number of green tansy sprays over It. I 
never thought of the cloak again until the 
next winter. When It was taken out for me 
to wear one cold November Sabbath, what 
was my grief to see the cloak, as I thought, 
ruined. The tansy leaves had printed their 
exact shapes In a dark brown color all over 
the back, which had lain uppermost In the 
bottom of the chest. The pressure and the 
heat had acted like a dye. I cried my eyes 
red and would not go to meeting. Every 
one thought the cloak was spoilt. But one 
day the minister's wife called at our house, 
and the sad tale of the cloak was related to 
her, and asking to see It she said, "Why," 
'*If It wasn't pretty before — and I never liked 
red for little girls — It certainly Is now. It 
Is beautiful with those brown leaves; It looks 
almost like a palm-leaf cashmere shawl." 
Now a palm-leaf cashmere shawl was the 

lOI 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

finest and most costly outer garment a woman 
could possess in those days. My mother 
and sisters agreed with the minister's wife, as 
her opinion about all women's concerns was 
as much respected as was her husband's on 
religious matters. So I began to wear the 
cloak again, and people thought it was a new 
one, and wondered how my mother could be 
so extravagant when she was so poor. But 
the cloak was much admired and thought to 
become me more than the last year's red one. 
The secret was not kept long for the minis- 
ter's wife explained it to someone to free my 
mother from the charge of extravagance. 
Soon everybody knew it and many inquiries 
were made how it happened. Some of 
our neighbor's daughters even tried to 
produce the same effects on their dresses 
and cloaks by pressing green leaves on them 
with hot flatirons. But it did not succeed. 
You cannot imitate accidents; they just hap- 
pen once ; the next one is something different. 
So all the girls envied me my cloak. It lasted 
me ten years, for I was not much taller at 
twenty than at ten." 

My mother was silent again and I ex- 
claimed "is that all, mother? Tell some more, 

1 02 



MY MOTHER'S RED CLOAK 

do." 

"Stories, my son, must have an end or you 
would not like them — but there would never 
be another. I have heard of a book that had 
a thousand, but it took a thousand evenings 
to tell them. So one an evening ought to be 
enough, and it is your bedtime." 

Here my youngest sister, Harriet, who was 
fifteen years old, said, "Mother, why don't 
you tell him the other part of the cloak 
story?" 

"Yes, tell it," I entreated. 

My mother appeared to be wholly ab- 
sorbed in her stocking; she had dropped a 
stitch and was working her needles painfully, 
trying to recover it. A half sad smile, half 
pleased expression came into her face and a 
faint blush upon her brown cheek. 

"Well, I suppose the journey I took in the 
red cloak with the tansy figures is what your 
sister wants me to tell you about. My moth- 
er, your grandmother, was a widow. I 
never saw my own father, for I was born 
while he was away fighting in the battles of 
the Revolution and he never returned; he 
was killed at Yorktown. When I was about 
ten years old my mother had an offer of mar- 

103 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

riage from a farmer in Medway who had lost 
his wife ; his children had grown up, married 
and settled excepting one son twenty years 
old. It was a matter of convenience on both 
sides; my mother needed a home and he 
needed a housekeeper. The marriage took 
place in her own house. But she did not go 
immediately to her new home; she had a lit- 
tle property to dispose of and other small af- 
fairs to arrange. When she had sold every- 
thing but her old white mare she set out 
for Medway upon the mare's back, taking 
me with her on a pillion behind. It was a 
day in Spring, and although not cold, I wore 
my cloak as the easiest way of carrying it. 
No doubt it was a queer spectacle we made; 
yet, not as queer then as it would seem now — 
the old white mare ambling along, head 
down, and feet hardly clearing the ground 
under the heavy load, for your grand- 
mother was a large, stout woman and 
we had a number of bags and bundles 
fastened onto the saddle, and I almost 
hidden among them, was quite covered by 
my cloak so that I might have been mis- 
taken for another parcel hanging behind 
my mother's broad back. She wore an 

104 



MY MOTHER'S RED CLOAK 

immense bonnet flaring wide in front and 
big bowed silver spectacles. I had on a small 
tightly-fitting bright yellow cap tied under 
my chin with blue ribbon. It was not a long 
journey from Bellingham to Medway, but it 
was the first I had ever taken, and it seemed 
to me it would never end. I was much sub- 
dued and even frightened on the way. It was 
all so strange and perplexing to me this 
marriage of my mother to a strange man, 
giving up my childhood home and going to 
another of which I knew nothing. Little did 
I imagine the destiny that awaited me there. 
At last we turned into a long lane and came 
to a large rambling farm house with barns 
all about It. A young man came to the door- 
step to meet us. I was not In the habit of 
taking much notice of boys and young men, 
but I could not help seeing that he was a 
handsome youth, tall, fair haired and blue 
eyed. He helped my mother to dismount, 
and then lifted me in his arms from the pil- 
lion. That young man, my son, was your 
father, and I have heard him say he that 
moment fell in love with the little girl In the 
red cloak. He seemed never so much pleased 
as when winter came round and I began to 

105 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

wear it again. He waited and served ten 
years for me, and when I was twenty and he 
thirty we were married. We went back to 
BelHngham to be married by my mother's 
minister, an old friend. We went on horse- 
back, I on a pilhon behind your father just 
as I had left the town and wearing still my 
red cloak, but almost for the last time, for 
it was thought no longer suitable for a mar- 
ried woman. It was hung away in a closet; 
your father would not have it made over into 
any other kind of a garment, as was the 
thrifty custom of all households, although I 
much wanted to make it into a petticoat. 
Your father prized it more than any of my 
newer clothes, and it hung in the closet for 
many a year. Sometimes in the long winter 
evenings when we would be talking of old 
times and the ten tedious years of his waiting, 
he would make me take out the cloak and 
parade around the room. It seemed to make 
him happy and more affectionate." 



io6 



MY UNCLE LYMAN 

AS I shall often allude to my 
Uncle Lyman in these pages, I 
will sketch as much of his char- 
acter and his ways as I can now 
recall, and that may interest the 
reader. He was a farmer of the old style 
and I love to remember him. To hear of 
great men and great events is stimulating, 
as even the sound of fire Is warming; yet the 
memory of those who have been near and 
dear to us brings a deeper glow into the 
heart. 

Uncle Lyman's farm supplied nearly 
every one of his needs except what were 
called In his day West India goods. He 
believed with Cato that the father of a fam- 
ily ought always to sell and never to buy. He 
strictly followed his advice in selling his old 
cattle, his old carts and used up tools and 
everything which he did not want. This was 
why his yards and buildings were unincum- 
bered with the trumpery which so often dis- 
figures New England farms. West India 
goods were the luxuries of his time. These 

107 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

goods were chiefly rum, sugar and molasses. 
Tea and spices were even greater luxuries. 
The strange marks on tea chests were a ci- 
pher no one had unravelled. On his farm were 
raised corn, wheat and always rye, for rye 
and not wheat was in Bellingham the staff of 
life. Eggs, cheese, butter and pork were 
bartered at the country stores for West 
India goods. Work, incessant work was 
the prime necessity on the farm and in 
the house, and Uncle Lyman and his 
wife never knew an idle day. This fixed 
upon him a serious and preoccupied air. 
He began the day early and left off late. The 
sun was his fellow traveller and laborer to 
and fro in the furrow, the corn rows and the 
swath. But it was hard for him to leave his 
work at sundown; darkness alone sometimes 
compelled him to quit the field. After sup- 
per, which was at five o'clock, the year round, 
is half and the better half of the day in sum- 
mer, he used to say. Our Bellingham 
neighbors were humble, hard working 
people, but they taught me "the great art of 
cheerful poverty." I was early cured of sev- 
eral follies by standing under the shadow of 
rustic wise men. I drove their oxen to the 

io8 



MY UNCLE LYMAN 

plow, and often fell behind alongside the 
ploughman and picked up the scattered seeds 
of old, traditional wisdom in his furrows. 
With these the sagacious urchin sometimes 
astonished his little mother. Visitors, a 
cloudy day, a gentle rain did not prevent 
Uncle Lyman from his labors. "Let us keep 
ahead of the weather," he would say, "and 
then we can go a-fishing." No weeds grew 
in his corn or rye; and his made hay seldom 
was wet. He scented a shower from as far 
away as the Mendon hills. He first taught 
me to notice the sweet perfume which a 
summer shower drives before it from afar, 
the combined perfume of wild flowers, trees 
and new mown grass. 

There was always the promise held out 
that, after haying or the first hoeing, we 
should go a-fishing on Beaver Pond, and 
sometimes the promise was kept. He was a 
masterful trailer for pickerel; he put into 
it the same energy as into his axe and scythe. 
In the same way that I was allowed to drive 
his mare Nancy by holding the slack of the 
reins, did I have my part in the fishing ex- 
cursions. I held a line over the edge of the 
boat until the fish bit, then another hand took 

109 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

it and drew it in. Perch or pout it was mine, 
and credit and praise were duly given. 
"What a smart boy!" words that made me 
more proud than any commendations I have 
heard since. When they were cooked I 
wanted my own catch to eat and was hu- 
mored. And in general that is the boy's dis- 
position; whatever he captures or finds on 
trees or on the earth he wishes to eat. No 
doubt a green apple and the buds of trees, 
and all kinds of sweet or peppery roots give 
him that wild and strenuous virtue which en- 
ables him to resist pampering and effeminat- 
ing influences. 

Although Uncle Lyman seldom allowed 
himself a holiday, I believe he enjoyed it as 
much as I did. He was simply an older 
boy; that was the secret of our sympathy 
and my admiration for him. He knew so 
many more things than I, could do so many 
more, yet when with me, all in a playful way 
as if they were of no account, and only for 
fun. He was my model and my ideal of a 
man in everything that made for me the 
world. I felt an inward, irresistible impulsion 
to do all that he did, just as we are inclined 
to beat time to the music that we love. Thus 

no 



MY UNCLE LYMAN 

was I taught to labor and enslaved to It be- 
fore I knew it; for a boy wants to do what 
he sees men do ; he must handle the hoe, the 
rake, the axe and the scythe, and these are 
often made to suit his size and strength in 
order to tempt him still further on. Thus 
does he forge his own chains ; he is caught in 
his own net and his plaything tools become 
his masters. Now he must mow and hoe in 
earnest, however hot the sun, however much 
he hates to work. Yet I have never felt any 
distinction between work and play when the 
former was to my liking. 

Uncle Lyman's wisdom had been handed 
down to him by his fathers, and he had im- 
proved it by observation. He added a new 
touch to the wrinkled face of ancient use. 
He knew the properties of all trees, weeds 
and herbs. Ash and hornbeam were his most 
precious woods. Ash served every purpose 
this side of iron; it was as good as a rope, 
for was not the Gordlon knot tied with it? 
and could be whittled down as fine as a 
knitting needle without breaking, and still 
keeping Its strength; It could be pounded 
Into basket stuff, separating the layers to al- 
most any degree of thinness. It handled 

III 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

every tool, from a pitchfork to an awl, and 
made the whole of a rake, the bows, teeth, 
head and staff. Besides, it had medicinal vir- 
tues; it was good for nose-bleed ever since 
it staunched the royal nose of King James, 
the Second. Although the most elastic of 
wood it never grew crooked, but shot up a 
trunk as straight as an arrow. It is a tree 
prophetic of archery. Uncle Lyman made 
me many a bow from a selected piece of ash, 
each year of my age a little longer and stout- 
er. He measured the length the bow should 
be by my height. What a joy it was at length 
to shoot an arrow almost out of sight! 
"Now", said Uncle Lyman, "you are almost 
big enough for a gun". Alas, I might as well 
have wished for a kingdom. A wooden gun 
for awhile satisfied my ambition. With that, 
however, I shot many an Indian, and the lit- 
tle boys and girls who teased and provoked 
me. But I soon tired of these imaginary foes 
and marksmanship. With bow and arrow I 
could hit the trunk of a tree, the house door, 
and by accident a pane of glass. Best of all 
I liked to shoot over Uncle Lyman's door- 
yard elm, or try for the clouds. Often I 
lost my arrow in them; so I bragged and be- 

112 



MY UNCLE LYMAN 

lleved. 

The hornbeam was much less common 
than the ash and was saved with particular 
care. It was mainly used for stanchions in 
the tie-ups of cows and oxen, for stakes on 
sleds and carts, and for levers. It is not 
easily bent and is almost impossible to break; 
it is the steel of the forest. Its foliage re- 
sembles that of the elm, but is finer and den- 
ser. It has no insect enemies and minds not 
the fiercest tempests. Uncle Lyman said 
only lightning could rive it, that the horn- 
beam drew fire from the clouds, and one 
should never go near it in a thunder storm. 
This was only when it was alive. 

His various speculations about natural ob- 
jects and phenomena, were always in the 
way of contraries and offsets. Good weath- 
er was enough to ensure forthcoming bad; 
a full crop this year meant a poor one next 
year. If every kernel of corn sprouted, look 
out for plenty of crows and a poor yield. 
Thus he comforted himself in every reverse 
and humbled himself in good fortune. In 
good years he was more saving, and in bad, 
less so than most of his neighbors. Now he 
had a fear ahead and now a hope. Thus he 

113 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

balanced both; yet the balance so inclined 
that the years increased his store, and thrift, 
industry and honesty brought him honor 
among his neighbors. He helped the widow 
and the orphan and loaned money without a 
mortgage. His debts and credits were obli- 
gations of honor; as he paid, so he was paid. 
Uncle Lyman admired trees as the most 
wonderful things that God had made grow 
out of the earth. He could hardly bring 
himself to chop them down. The crash of 
a falling tree which gave me the most intense 
delight, made him sorrowful. He stood 
awhile over it as over the corpse of an old 
friend. He had known it for many a year, 
had noted its growth from a sapling to a 
tree as old as himself. Like the old man of 
Verona, 

"A neighboring wood, born with himself, he 
sees. 
And loves his old contemporary trees". 

The trees I loved and played with most in 
my boyhood, the white birches, for which I 
still have more fondness than any other in 
our northern forests. Uncle Lyman cared for 

114 



MY UNCLE LYMAN 

not at alL Although he had a sense of beauty, 
and long association with an object affected 
him with a tinge of romance and secret sen- 
timent, yet utility was the chief criterion in 
his estimate of trees and men. Could you do 
a good day's work, it was enough; it filled 
the measure of a man and the promise of a 
boy. A useful tree was therefore the best 
tree. He had no use for white or gray 
birches, for they were neither timber nor 
vendible firewood. He often ridiculed them, 
and if there was a worthless fellow in town, 
he was, in his comparison, a gray birch, good 
for nothing but to hoop the cider barrels, of 
which the fellow was too fond; if a too gay 
girl, she was a white birch, dressed in satin, 
frizzled and beribboned, dress over dress of 
the same stuff to her innermost petticoat. He 
saw no good in the birch except for the backs 
of naughty boys. I now know a hundred uses 
for the birch, unsuspected by him. He had 
never heard of peg and spool and bobbin 
mills, nor of the mountain poet who makes 
his own birch bark books, on whose leaves he 
inscribes his simple songs — and, envied man, 
is able to sell them. 

But all these useful, playful and poetic uses 

115 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

are nothing to me In comparison to the birch- 
en bower wherein I spent entrancing summer 
days with Launa Probana. 

Having been my father's most intimate 
friend, when he died in the midst of his years, 
he became my mother's adviser and helper, 
and to me a second father. I loved him well, 
and I believe he reciprocated this boyish af- 
fection. His eyes twinkled and the wrinkles 
on his weather-beaten face ran together when 
I approached him In the field, or when we 
talked together beside the hearth fire or un- 
der the elm tree when the day's work was 
done. For some reason I cannot now fath- 
om, unless it were the ambitious desire to put 
myself on a footing with his years and wis- 
dom, I would assume with him an unnat- 
ural gravity. My wisdom consisted in ask- 
ing him questions, any that happened to come 
Into my head. I took for granted that he 
knew everything. Had he not been to Bos- 
ton, and more than once? Yet little would 
he say about that town. He liked much bet- 
ter to talk of places he had never seen, 
especially London and London Bridge. I 
only learned that people In Boston dressed 
every day In the week In their best clothes; 

ii6 



MY UNCLE LYMAN 

that was what made the deepest impression 
upon me; for our best clothes hung in the 
closet until Sunday. Uncle Lyman and I 
went barefooted and shirtsleeved all summer. 
He never had a linen shirt or collar; but how 
fine he looked In a snowy white cotton shirt 
and broad collar, a blue coat and tall bell- 
shaped hat, a hat he had worn all his life on 
the Sabbath and at funerals. Nor do I think 
he had, during his manhood, more than one 
best suit of clothing. In winter he always 
wore a long woolen frock made by his wife, 
and a cap of woodchuck skin. Folks said it 
was like to be a hard winter when he put 
on his overcoat. His complexion was as 
dark as an Indian's; eyes as black as night, 
and he had straight raven hair. He used 
much tobacco, always a quid in his mouth ex- 
cept when It was a pipe. He mostly refrained 
on the Sabbath until the evening when a long 
quiet smoke compensated him for abstinence 
during two sermons. His voice was rich 
and seemed to come from deep down In his 
chest. When he was a bit puzzled, he 
scratched his head with one finger. He was 
scrupulously neat In his person and orderly 
in his yard and buildings. No chips, no brok- 

117 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

en-down carts nor tools disfigured his prem- 
ises. His was almost the only barn of a 
working farmer I ever saw that was kept 
clean and neat — except my own. He did not 
belong to any church; but he had a whole 
pew in the body of the meetinghouse and con- 
tributed his full share to the support of the 
Gospel. Moreover he gave of the produce 
of his farm every year something to the min- 
ister's woodshed or cellar. I never heard 
him but once make any comment on the ser- 
mons he had heard, which were more than 
five thousand according to his figures. "My 
boy'\ he said to me one Sunday evening, "If 
you should ever be a parson, try to make your 
sermons different every time. It seems to me 
as though I had heard the same sermon all 
my life". On the Sabbath day, after the 
chores were done, there were shaving and 
dressing, the fires to be put out and the win- 
dows to be made fast with a button or a nail. 
Then the carryall was brought out, a high 
narrow vehicle difficult to get into, and still 
more difficult to get out of. The mare, Nan- 
cy, was called white, but she had patches of 
brown along her expansive sides and was, 
with much effort, squeezed between the fills, 

ii8 



MY UNCLE LYMAN 

and the straps made tight in their buckles. 
Nancy winced at this tightening. She did not 
like her Sunday harness which had grown 
hard and stiff from infrequent use and too 
small, having been made for her when she 
was younger. I also felt most uncom- 
fortable in my good clothes, which were ever 
outgrown and held me like a corselet. At 
last the house door was locked and we drove 
the two miles to the church, silent and seri- 
ous as became our Sunday clothes and our 
equipage. We felt strange to ourselves and 
not at ease. When the meeting was over T 
had a sudden overpowering revulsion in my 
spirits. I wanted to shout, to run, to jump 
over something and a hitching post as high as 
my head offered the nearest opportunity. I 
forgot the Sunday school lesson in a mo- 
ment; I had not understood a word of it. 
On the way home we became very cheerful. 
There was comment on the wayside farms 
and gossip of the doings of the neighbors. 
We compared the height of their corn with 
our own field, and always found it a little 
less than ours. A heavy load of some- 
thing seemed lifted from our hearts on re- 
turning from meeting. Uncle Lyman slyly 

119 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

put his quid back into his mouth which at 
once made him happier. There was a faint 
remonstrance from the back seat, which he 
pretended not to hear; or he would rejoin, 
"mother, have you munched all those cara- 
way seeds you took along to meeting?" My 
driving on the way home was much like the 
illusion which follows us through life. Hands 
in front of ours direct our actions and our 
affairs. We hold bi^t the slack of the reins, 
and the driven imagines himself the driver. 
There was a short whip in the socket, which 
was never taken out in the summer, and in 
sleighing disappeared altogether; it was only 
ornamental. "Hudup" and a flap of the 
reins were enough for the encouragement of 
Nancy. A switch of her tail and a laying 
back of her ears showed that she under- 
stood. If a letter must be written, it was done 
after meeting. Uncle Lyman seldom touched 
pen and paper except when an item was to be 
set down in his account book. Paper was 
scarce and costly and postage six good cents ; 
and the pen, a quill, was usually dried up, 
and the nib opened too wide to hold the ink, 
and had to be soaked a good while before it 
would write. There was always- some excuse 

1 20 



MY UNCLE LYMAN 

for not answering a letter. But nothing 
pleased him more than to receive one. It 
was read slowly and with great attention, 
stuck behind the clock and reread for a week. 
The Sabbath ended with an early supper and 
early sleep, for Monday was always a busy 
day. Corn and potatoes did not rest on 
the Sabbath, neither did weeds. 

At last for Uncle Lyman there came the 
eternal Sabbath day. He lifted the latch 
of his house door for the last time, smoked 
his last pipe, and laid down willingly to sleep. 
Other feet now traverse his lands; there is 
new paint over the ancient red house walls, 
and new labor saving tools; they and hired 
menials do the work, but no more than his 
two hands in proud industrious independence 
were wont to accomplish. He is forgotten by 
those who now possess what he made worth 
possessing. But I have not forgotten him, 
and little do the present owners of his houses 
and lands imagine that there Is a title back 
of theirs, registered in the court of memory 
which no mere occupation and ownership can 
invalidate. 



121 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

THE ANCIENT NEW ENGLAND FARMER 

How pleasant o'er the still autumnal vale 

From his great timbered barn's wide open 

door 

The muffled sound of his unresting flail 

In rhythmic swing upon the threshing 
floor! 

How straight their tasselled tops his corn 
upreared ! 
Straight were the rows, no weed dared 
raise Its head: 
How golden gleamed their opening sheaths 
well eared 
Whose inner husks stuffed out his bulging 
bed! 

Full many a field of dewy grass breast-high 
His long sharp scythe ere breakfast time 
did lay; 

Full many a hurrying shower came by, 
But to the mow still faster went the hay. 

To him as inward fires were ice and snow, 
They urged his pulse with warm vivacious 
blood; 
How made his furrowed cheeks in winter 
glow 
With ruddy health and Iron hardihood ! 

122 



MY UNCLE LYMAN 

Superfluous to him was coat or vest, 

Let blow hot or cold or stormiest weather; 

Lie, as his hardy fathers, liked the best 
His shirt sleeves free and brimless cap of 
leather. 

Few were his books, his learning was but 
small; 
He boasted not of thoughts beyond his 
speech ; 
Some few and simple maxims bounded all 
That he had learned, or wished to teach. 

He loved his home, his farm, his native town; 
These were the walls his happy world con- 
fined; 
And heaven with unaccustomed joy looked 
down 
To see fulfilled a life itself designed. 

Sadly his neighbors bore him to his grave 

Beneath the old perpetual mourning pine. 
Where honest tears and praise they duly 

gave. 
For all he was, the immemorial sign. 



123 



THE DORR WAR AND MILLERISM 

THERE was trouble enough in 
Belllngham in 1840. The sleepy 
old town in its previous existence 
had never felt a ripple of ex- 
citement more moving than a 
sewing bee, a travelling phrenologist or tem- 
perance lecturer, a summer picnic or a winter 
revival. Now it was invaded on one hand 
by Millerism and on the other by the Dorr 
War. The seat of the latter was in Rhode 
Island; but Bellingham, being a border town, 
was in danger of a raid. The Dorrites did, 
in fact, advance as far as Crook's Tavern 
on the southern boundary of the town, where, 
having drunk up what rum they could find, 
and hearing that the other tavern in the cen- 
ter of the town was kept on teetotal princi- 
ples, they at once retreated. Not, how- 
ever, before an alarm had been rung 
out by the church bell and the militia 
company called to arms. Great was the 
fright of the women and children. There 
was no sleeping in any house, no work- 
ing and little eating for several days. My 

124 



THE DORR WAR AND MILLERISM 

mother took her family to the top of a 
neighboring hill to reconnoitre and was pre- 
pared to run for the woods in case the enemy 
appeared. She was in great distress, having 
no man to care for and protect her little 
brood. She was a small, delicate and timid 
woman, extremely unfitted to play the 
heroine, and only used to suffering, which 
she bore like a saint. On the contrary I aged 
seven, armed with a long fishpole, threatened 
the advance of the rebels, and was eager to 
have them come on. I did not go far from 
my mother and sisters however. I enjoyed 
the situation, for I loved danger, with plenty 
of protection and means of escape. I loved 
fire, deep and threatening water, the roofs of 
houses, high, dangerous places, thin ice and 
a bull in the pasture. These tempted me to 
trials of boyish bravery. At heart, a little 
coward, I brandished my fishpole and clung 
to my mother's dress. We could see our sol- 
diers with their high hats surmounted by 
pompons, parading in front of the town 
house and could hear the snare drum beat the 
time of their movement. Nothing came of 
the affair beyond great excitement and town 
talk. The Dorrites retreated to Smithfield, 

125 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

the militia men went back to their farms and 
the town was saved. I was terribly disap- 
pointed, and the succeeding days were too 
flat and dull to be endured. I got through 
them by playing at soldiering for the re- 
mainder of the summer, making forts and 
wooden guns and gay uniforms out of bright 
bits of calico, cocked hats of paper stuck full 
of cock tail feathers. I had also a long- 
handled lance which had come down in the 
family from Revolutionary times with which 
I charged the woodpile and the hen house, 
made of sods, at an angle in the orchard 
wall. Through this I thrust so fiercely one 
day that I killed our only rooster, to the con- 
sternation of my mother and sisters. As I 
was much in need of more tail feathers for 
my military hat, it did not seem to me such 
a tragedy. I was punished by not getting 
the drumstick and wishing bone when he was 
cooked, and the tail feathers, to my chagrin, 
were made into a hearth duster. 

The Dorr Rebellion was not long past 
when the terrifying prophecies of Rev. Wil- 
liam Miller began to be preached. He had 
figured out by Biblical and historical dates 
that the world was to last six thousand years, 

126 



THE DORR WAR AND MILLERISM 

and that era would be reached about 1843. 
The Dorr scare was a trifle compared to 
the panic which now seized upon many peo- 
ple in the country towns of New England. 
Even those who disbelieved or scoffed could 
not conceal their dread. It sobered every- 
body and banished all joy and gaiety. A 
sad expectancy and presentiment of impend- 
ing disaster oppressed whole communities. 
Church members and serious minded persons 
thought it as well to be prepared and to be on 
the safe side, in case the end should come. Re- 
vivals were going on everywhere and the 
churches were refilled. What impression 
did this talk and excitement make on chil- 
dren? I can say for one that I enjoyed it 
almost as much as the Dorr War. I compre- 
hended nothing of what it meant. I never 
thought of anything happening to myself, to 
the house or my dog and kites. The general 
agitation filled me inwardly with a lively joy; 
the danger seemed to threaten only our 
neighbors, that is, such as were Millerites. 
I reasoned that they and their houses would 
somehow disappear while we should remain. 
So every morning I climbed a little hill to see 
if Sylvanus White's house was standing. He 

127 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

was the leading believer in the end of the 
world among our neighbors, a prosperous 
farmer living in a large, frame house. I 
heard my mother say that he had no children, 
and it did not make much difference to him 
what happened. I pondered this remark of 
my mother trying to think what she meant. I 
got no farther than the curious conclusion 
that all the Millerites were grown up people 
without children, and, by a natural deduction, 
that my mother and sisters and myself were 
safe from the end of the world. But I was 
not altogether satisfied. In my heart, so 
much did I delight in having something go- 
ing on, that I wanted to see the great event, 
which I pictured to myself, remembering 
the words, flame, smoke and thunder, as 
something like the mimic Indian fights I had 
once seen represented on the annual training 
day of the militia men; only this promised to 
be on a grander scale. 

It Is well known that children play at 
death and funerals without sorrow; so I 
played the destruction of the world with great 
delight. I made my world of small boxes for 
houses, one over the other, and on top of all, 
a crippled kite which represented Farmer 

128 



THE DORR WAR AND MILLERISM 

White, as I had heard that he had prepared 
a white robe in which to ascend. I wanted of 
course some people in my doomed world be- 
sides Farmer White. I manufactured quite 
an assemblage out of one thing and another 
and gave them names, mostly of older boys 
whom I disliked, my Sunday-school teacher, 
who gave me a bad half hour every week, 
and my uncle Slocomb who was always tell- 
ing my mother I would never be a man if she 
did not stop indulging me so much. I added 
a few pretended animals of corn cobs, a 
dead snake, a live frog; and, as these did not 
seem the real thing, I tied my dog and cat and 
a lame chicken close to the sacrificial heap. I 
surrounded the whole with sticks, paper and 
pine cones and then came the exciting moment 
when I "touched her off," as boys say. What 
fun, what glee I experienced at that moment, 
no one can know, who does not keep in his 
bosom a fragment of his boyish heart. Cre- 
ation may please the gods, but it cannot equal 
the boy's pleasure in destruction, especially by 
fire. I only needed a few spectators and I 
soon had them. The flames began to singe 
the dog and cat, and fricassee the chicken. 
Their howling and screaming brought the 

129 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

family upon the scene, and none too soon to 
save the lives of my pets. I was shut in a 
dark closet on bread and water for the re- 
mainder of the day and left to meditate, as 
my mother charged me, when I confessed my 
intentions, on "the naughtiness of mocking se- 
rious things." Thus did I innocently antici- 
pate in my own person that dies irae which I 
had prepared for my imaginary town. I 
took no further interest in Millerism and in 
neighbor White's big house and ascension 
robe. After this I made new and less de- 
structible worlds which continue to this day. 

But the delusion did not expire by my 
neglect. It is still cherished as the candid 
faith of many readers of scriptural oracles. 
And now they are comforted by the astrono- 
mers who terrify us with their calculations 
on the inexorable cataclysm impending over 
our trusty and splendid earth. Never mind; 
we shall not be at the exit. To the vast fu- 
ture belong all these disconcerting predictions 
—and welcome. Time has already inscribed 
our urns, and, without mathematics, appoint- 
ed for each one his separate and appropriate 
catastrophe. We who have lived fifteen lus- 

130 



THE DORR WAR AND MILLERISM 

trums have already witnessed the dissolution 
of our world. What more could the Rev. 
William Miller do for us? 



131 



WOODS AND PASTURES 

THERE are many matters In the 
recollections of our earliest years 
so minute that to speak of them 
Is only becoming to second child- 
hood. "The soul discovers great 
things from casual circumstances", says Por- 
phory. Providence provides temporary 
bridges through life which commonly fall to 
pieces after we pass over them and are for- 
gotten. It is not so with me; one bridge 
remains whole and more beautified by time — 
that on which I return to my native town. I 
require no daylight or lantern for the journey. 
Some men can number their happy days; I 
more often count my happy nights, when I 
soothe myself to repose by recalling the sweet 
and tender joys of childhood. I travel the 
roads and pastures or wade the brook hand 
In hand with Launa Probana. 

There was no gate out of Bellingham In my 
childhood. Its confines I never thought to 
question, or to suspect that there was any- 
thing beyond. It had Its own sun, moon and 
stars. Its river, its pond, its pastures and 

132 



WOODS AND PASTURES 

woods as full of Interests and resources and 
as exhilarating as any place discovered later 
on the map of the world. This concentration 
and limitation give to children experiences and 
Illusions which color thewhole subsequent life. 
They are implicit In that soil where we find 
the roots of our being. They are what make 
us good citizens, steadfast friends, true lov- 
ers, observers of nature, disciples of the poets. 
They, whose early life is diffused over too 
many objects, with too many opportunities, 
have only a temporary and Incomplete hold 
and delight in any of the advantages of their 
superior fortune. What is the good of how- 
ever large a circle, if it have no center? 

The lean and hungry pastures of Belling- 
ham were prolific in Inexhaustible harvests; 
what they bore on their surface may hint of 
something deeper and more perennial. The 
pastures and borders of the woods were cov- 
ered with patches of huckleberry and blue-ber- 
ry bushes, and over every stone heap 
clambered the low blackberry vines with 
racemes of luscious fruit. The pastures 
were named from one or the other of 
these berries, and their owners never 
claimed private right to them. To put 

133 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

up the bars as we entered and left the 
field, was the only obligation expected of us. 
Seldom were they taken down; the women 
crawled through, the boys leaped over, the 
small girls squeezed in between the posts and 
the wall. Our forefathers left the turn- 
stile behind them in their English meadows, 
but not the short-cut from house to house, 
from field to field or from village to village. 
There is always a shorter way than the crowd 
travels. Boys and animals, those untaught 
explorers and surveyors, are the first to find 
it. Once within the pasture, a hundred short 
paths led hither and thither wherein grew a 
little low, sweet grass which the red cows 
grazed and sheep nibbled; and as they saunt- 
ered along they paid behind for their food in 
front. Then a warning voice would be raised 
telling us to be careful where we stepped. In 
these mazy pathways we were always return- 
ing upon our tracks and finding the bushes we 
had already stripped. Children were crying 
out to each other that the bottom of their 
pails was covered, or that they had a pint or 
quart, and generally as many went into the 
mouth as into the pail. The days when we 
went berrying were holidays, although the 

134 



WOODS AND PASTURES 

berries were picked for market and added a 
mite to the year's supply of silver money. 
Bank bills and gold we never saw, only silver 
and copper, and of these, silver was the mon- 
ey of men and women and huge copper cents 
and half cents of boys. I can remember a 
time when one cent was riches unspeakable, 
treasured for months and often displayed in 
triumph to penniless companions. Poor in- 
deed are they who have never known the day 
of small things and the size of a cent. It is 
said money is only good for what it will buy, 
and the miser who hoards is the scoff of man- 
kind. I must have been a descendant of Shy- 
lock for I loved cents for themselves and the 
feeling of importance they gave me. I pol- 
ished them until they shone like gold and the 
face of the Father of his Country gleamed 
with irridescent benignity. Some were hope- 
lessly worn and battered; some had a hole in 
them or a piece nicked out of the rim. These 
I exchanged with my mother for more perfect 
ones which I could burnish. 

For children, berrying was play, pure pas- 
time; it brought no money to their pockets. 
For the first hour it was Infinitely exciting; 
by the next, we wanted something else, and It 

135 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

was difficult to keep us in order. What to 
do next is an eternal question that has fol- 
lowed both children and man from Eden. It 
is usually resolved by doing the same thing 
over again. 

A little boy once sat discontentedly on the 
bank of a river. A traveller asked him what 
was the matter. He answered "I want to be 
on the other side of the stream.'' "What 
for?" inquired the traveller. ''So that I could 
come back here," said the restless boy. 

To hide and play games was one means of 
escape from the fatigue of the slow filling 
berry pails. Then such quiet fell over the pas- 
ture that our elders knew some mischief was 
afoot. We were promptly discovered, scold- 
ed and warned that we must fill our pails be- 
fore we could play. 

As milking time approached we gathered 
up stray hats, aprons and handkerchiefs and 
prepared to go home. We painted each oth- 
ers' cheeks with the red blood of huckleber- 
ries and crowned our heads with leaves of 
the birch and oak, stalks of indigo weed or 
broad fern fronds that hung down over the 
face like green veils. Thus freaked and 
marked, walking in single file, our mothers 

136 



WOODS AND PASTURES 

and elder sisters behind us, shouting, leaping 
and laughing, we presented something as near 
a Bacchic procession as could be found In 
a community enshrouded In the black cloak of 
John Calvin. What a good time It was to be 
alive, and never Is a boy so young as In the 
berry pasture, nor any place so full of en- 
chantments. She — for It was never a boy — 
who had picked the most berries that day, 
headed the band and was a proud and envied 
person. Our elders cherished this emulation. 
I was always thinking that the next time we 
went berrying, I should try for the head of 
the procession ; but the fun was too much for 
me; I could not hold to my resoluton above 
a half hour; I was excessively fond of praise 
but averse to the ways of meriting it. The 
only long word I brought away from child- 
hood was approbatlveness. I never used the 
word, nor knew Its meaning, and, least of all, 
could have pronounced It. I heard It once 
only, together with another word, editor, 
which I understood as little, from the lips of 
a travelling phrenologist. It happened that 
my mother lodged and fed him for a night 
and he paid his score by examining the heads 
of all the family. I was greatly impressed 

137 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

when he remarked that I had a large bump 
of approbativeness and would sometime be an 
editor. As to the bump, feeling over my own 
head, I never could find it. My mother said 
it was inside and that the phrenologist meant 
I must be a good boy. I was quite used to 
that interpretation of everything concerning 
myself. A great many years after, when I 
became editor of an obscure newspaper, so 
little comfort, reputation or profit did I find 
In it, that I amused myself In thinking of it as 
the fulfillment of the phrenologist's pro- 
phecy. 

The Bacchic procession dropped Its mem- 
bers here and there along the road and we 
got to our own cottage tired, sunburnt and 
hungry. We ate our suppers of berries and 
milk out of pewter porringers with pewter 
spoons and went to bed at dark. The next 
day we fed on berry pies, and all the neigh- 
borhood during the berry season bore the 
marks of pies in blackened teeth and lips, ex- 
cept a few fastidious young women who clean- 
ed theirs with vinegar. Tooth brushes were 
as unknown as rouge and powder. Every 
Saturday night the children were scrubbed In 
a wash tub in front of the fire place in winter, 

138 



WOODS AND PASTURES 

and at the door In summer. During the ses- 
sion of school my mother washed my ears and 
face every day, pinned my collar, kissed me, 
and always her tedious parting Injunction was, 
mind your teacher, study your lesson and be 
a good boy. Then away with flying feet I 
overtake my companions, whom no sooner 
met, than we loitered along the road, hand in 
hand, or arms around another's neck, merry 
and playful, quite unmindful of nine o'clock 
and the hateful lesson. There were no preco- 
cious and wonderful children In our red 
school house. Even I did not begin to write 
poetry until I was eighteen or nineteen ! The 
only literary prodigy among our neighbors 
was a maiden lady who wrote obituary verses 
on the death of her pious friends. 

The berry season lasted several weeks, 
and toward Its close prudent housewives 
dried some for winter use or preserved 
them in molasses. The last we gath- 
ered were the swamp, or high-bush blue- 
berries. These had a sub-acid, delicious 
flavor, not unlike the smell of the swamp pink, 
which grew in the same spot. The black rasp- 
berry, which we called thimble berry, was 
found along the stone walls, but was not 

139 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

abundant. I knew a few bushes and kept It 
secret, for if I found a saucerful I was sure 
of a small pie baked by my mother, and all 
my own. If I could not find enough for a 
pie I strung such as I gathered on long spears 
of grass. As they were shaped like little thim- 
bles, I fitted them on the grass stems one over 
the other like a nest of cups, reversing them 
at Intervals, to make a pattern, which showed 
the young savage, generally Intent only on 
something to eat or to play with, to have a 
slight artistic instinct. As I now recall those 
strings of thimble berries, I think they would 
make an humble ornamental border to a pic- 
ture of a New England roadside with its 
crooked and tumbled stone walls. No road 
to me Is attractive that Is not bounded by such 
walls and fringed with berry bushes, brush 
and wild apple trees, from among which peer 
forth the cymes of the wayfaring bush and 
sweet scented clusters of the traveller's joy. 
Let England have her trim, hawthorne lanes 
and pleached gardens of fruit and flower, and 
Italy her olive and orange; for me the New 
England wilding roadside, interrupted only 
now and then by a farmhouse and littered 
yard, is dearer. 

140 



WOODS AND PASTURES 

I have not yet mentioned other berries that 
used to make a country boy's life so full of in- 
terest. There was the cranberry, not yet ex- 
ploited by cultivation and proprietorship. In 
Bellingham the cranberry meadows were still 
wild and free. The farmer who claimed an 
exclusive right to them had no standing in the 
community and was universally denounced as 
mean and stingy. No one wanted many, as 
they were not bought at country stores, and, 
required as much sugar in the cooking as there 
were berries; so cranberry sauce was a luxury 
rarely indulged. Like most wild fruits they 
were never picked clean. When the spring 
thaws flooded the meadows and washed them 
in windrows on the shore we gathered them 
to eat raw and also for paint. Having been 
frozen and a little sweetened in their winter 
and watery wanderings, we found them more 
palatable than when cooked. I know not why, 
yet a country boy prefers the raw and wild 
flavor far more than the condiments and sea- 
sonings of cookery. The chief use of the 
spring cranberries was as a paint; the thin 
juice made a pretty, pink color on white pa- 
per, or added an admirable touch to a rus- 
set, red cheek, such as commonly beautified 

141 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

Belllngham boys and girls, nurtured on milk, 
apples and brown bread, open air and unfin- 
ished attic chambers. 

I dwell much on the recollections of the 
doings of the day, but the nights had also 
their joys, none greater than the rain on the 
roof and the exquisite, semi-conscious mo- 
ments when sleep began to overtake body and 
soul, gently extinguishing them in a soothing, 
delicious languor. The low country attic is 
the true house of dreams, where the good, the 
strange or the fearful spirits play over the 
subjected and helpless will. Long time I re- 
membered some of those dreams which visited 
my truckle bed, placed on rollers a foot from 
the floor and thrice as many from the ridge 
pole. In winter, tightly tucked in by a loving 
mother, the cold without only made me feel 
the more snug and warm within. The snow 
sifted through the chinks in the loose shingles, 
making little white hillocks on the floor, and 
often I found enough on my pillow in the 
morning to press into a snowball and pelt my 
sister, who slept at the other end of the at- 
tic. 

I follow no order in my narrative: I wan- 
der; but how can one go far in the small and 

142 



WOODS AND PASTURES 

circumscribed region of earliest memories, 
bound each to each by some inwardly felt af- 
finity, which neither time nor world wander- 
ings can dissever? One thing suggests anoth- 
er and the connection must be found in the 
things themselves. Cranberry picking carried 
me forward into springtime; now I return to 
the autumn, the harvest season, when al- 
though not old enough to dig my mother's 
small patch of potatoes, I could pick them up 
in a basket. She herself handled the hoe un- 
covering the long reds and the white Che- 
nangos. I liked better to shake down apples 
than to gather things from the ground; for to 
climb trees is as much a boy's as a monkey's 
instinct. That was my first thought when I 
happened to observe any kind of tree, could 
I climb it? The wild grapes which grew in 
profusion along the banks of our river 
clambering over the tall grey birches gave me 
glorious opportunities for climbing, as the 
sweetest and largest clusters were always at 
the very top of the trees. The limbs of the 
grey birch, although small, are very elastic 
and tough, making a sure footing for the 
climber. The danger was, that, as he 
approached the slender spire of the tree, 

143 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

it would suddenly bend or break and 
drop him Into the water. This was all 
the more fun, if he could swim. When 
he reached home he was liable to have 
his jacket not only dried but "warmed," which 
was the colloquial for a thrashing. I usually 
sold grapes enough during the day of the Fall 
militia training to keep me in pocket money 
through the winter. This was my first effort 
at any kind of trading and, I think, spoilt 
me for a commercial career; for there was no 
cost, no capital, no loss; all was profit; and 
ever since that day it has seemed to me the 
only manner of doing business worth while. 
There are, or were, other compensations 
in a life of trade, which might fire the 
ambition of a strenuous youth. I remember 
three voyages made the merchant a Thane in 
ancient England. 

When frost began to brown the grass and 
brighten the trees, the woods were full of 
boys, partridges and squirrels. The boys and 
squirrels, much alike in their appetites and 
ability to climb trees, were intent on gather- 
ing a store of nuts for winter. In early morn- 
ing after a sharp frost, the chestnut burrs 
opened and the nuts dropped out, falling and 

144 



WOODS AND PASTURES 

hiding among the leaves. There we hunted 
for them; the squirrels did not appear to have 
to hunt, but put their intelligent paws under 
the leaves with an Infallible instinct. They 
were always on the ground earlier than we, 
and filled their cheeks before we had filled 
our bags and pockets. What extraordinary 
care the chestnut takes of herself; a rough 
outer garment bristling with sharp needles, 
and within, the whitest, silkiest lining fit for 
the cradle of a baby queen. To prevent ac- 
cidents and a more easy delivery from the 
burr, the nut is annolnted with a slight exu- 
dation of oil, which gives a soft, agreeable 
feeling as you hold it in your hand. Doubt- 
less It acts as a preservative also keeping the 
nut from becoming too soon dry and hard. 
Chestnuts were laid away for future use, to 
be brought out on winter evenings with cider 
and apples. Nobody thought of going to bed 
without first eating something. Sometimes the 
chestnuts were roasted in the ashes on the 
hearth, and less often boiled. Of all places 
to warm them, a boy's pocket was the best; 
there they were handiest to eat on the road, 
or at school, when the teacher was not look- 
ing. If caught in the act, you were called up 

145 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

to her desk and forfeited the contents of your 
pocket. It might be returned to you if you 
had behaved yourself meanwhile and had not 
whispered, thrown spit balls, or pinched the 
little girl who sat next to you. There were 
two kinds of walnut trees in the neighbor- 
hood; the common name of one was shag- 
bark, of the other pignut. The shagbark was 
the walnut of the market, a nut with a rich, 
oily kernel; the pignut was smaller with a 
very thick shell and correspondingly small 
meat, hard to separate from the shell. They 
were of little worth, not salable and we gath- 
ered them only when the other kind was 
scarce. It took a hard frost, several times 
repeated, to loosen them from the tree. We 
often clubbed them down. It was a perilous 
undertaking to climb a walnut tree, for the 
limbs began to grow high up and the trunk 
was covered with a rough bark, hence the 
name shagbark; to shin up, and still more to 
descend, was apt to make patches or a new 
seat to your trousers your mother's evening 
work after you had gone to bed. Where grew 
anything good to eat and free to all, a boy 
was sure to have it, although it cost him sub- 
sequent patches, whippings and tears. Shall 

146 



WOODS AND PASTURES 

the squirrel hunt for nuts and the little sons 
of men be forbidden, just to save a new pair 
of breeches, or an old jacket? But the woes 
of country boyhood are naught in comparison 
to its joys, and a day in a berry field, or a 
morning among the chestnut trees, under the 
blue sky and a west wind, with merry com- 
panions. Is a memory that outshines all the 
purchased pleasures of later life. Confess 
to me, ye humble and trivial things, confess 
what charms were yours, which never the 
flood of years submerges. Alas, they have no 
speech. I hear but a strain of imperishable 
music. 



147 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

HOME AND HOMESICKNESS 

IT was thought best In New England 
country towns that boys, who were 
not needed on the farm and were not 
to be educated beyond the common 
school, should learn some trade. As 
my mother possessed no land nor any means 
to send me to academy and college. It was 
early decided to apprentice me to a trade with 
some good master. There was another rea- 
son; she did not feel able nor competent to 
manage me when I should be older. She had 
a presentiment that It would require a strong- 
er hand than her own gentle one to guide me 
In a straight path. Always after the death of 
her husband, her only means of meeting her 
difficulties and perplexities was by prayer. 
Three times each day, after the morning, noon 
and evening meals she retired to her own 
chamber to pray. She read none but religious 
books and the Bible. Her Bible was the wed- 
ding gift of her husband— that and one sil- 
ver spoon marked with his and her initials 

148 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

J. A. and E. T. Intertwined after the manner 
of silversmiths. My father appears to have 
been the owner of but one book, Cotton Math- 
er's, "Essays to do Good," which I still pos- 
sess and, alas, could never read through. Of 
course the title of the volume at the date of 
its republication, 1808, had been greatly re- 
duced. No Mather would be satisfied with 
a title much less expansive than the contents, 
nor wanting some Latin interlardings. The 
original title was "Benifacius," followed by 
ten lines of sub-titles. This was unusual re- 
serve for one of Cotton Mather's productions. 
In its day it was as popular as is the worst 
novel of ours, and was continually being re- 
published. Even Dr. Franklin read and 
praised it and professed that it had influ- 
enced his whole life. The preface is a fine 
specimen of the manner In which a popular 
Boston preacher at the beginning of the 
eighteenth century expressed himself when he 
appeared in print. It has all the airs and 
attudlnizing of a full dress ball-room. He 
says that a passage in the speech of a British 
envoy suggested the book and declares of 
it, "Ink were too vile a liquor to write that 
passage. Letters of gold were too mean to be 

149 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

the preservers of It. Paper of Amyanthus 
would not be precious and perennous enough 
to perpetuate it." 

A prayerful mother, the Bible and the Rev. 
Cotton Mather ought to have been sufficient 
to turn out good boys from any household. 
Then there was Sunday-school where we 
were much instructed about the nature and 
consequences of sin and the end that awaited 
bad boys. Notwithstanding, some closer and 
more practical guidance was needed for a 
growing lad; something to put him in the 
way of preparing to earn his living. Accord- 
ingly in my eighth year I was turned over to 
an uncle, my father's only brother, who lived 
in the next town. He was a boot maker with 
four sons of his own. At once I found my- 
self cut off from all the objects and persons 
I had ever known, thrown into a strange 
world, my own lost as completely as if I had 
gone to another. I found myself introduced 
to a small room up a flight of stairs at the 
end of the shed of my uncle's house. The 
room was full of windows, all of which looked 
in the direction of my lost home; it had a 
number of low shoemaker's benches ranged 
along three of its sides. Here my uncle and 

150 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

two of his sons made boots. I was directed 
to one of the benches and began by being 
taught how to use a waxed end and stitch the 
counters of bootlegs. Never In my life be- 
fore had I been pinned to one spot for any 
length of time save on a school bench; never 
before set at any work that was not or that 
could not be made half play. A deadly home- 
sickness at once seized upon me, of which I 
could not be cured by all the kindness and 
encouragement of my uncle and aunt. I was 
constantly looking out of the shop windows, 
expecting some one to come and rescue me. 
Constantly I wept and could not swallow my 
food for the lump In my throat; at last food 
was loathsome and my eyes became so swollen 
with continual tears that I could scarcely see 
to thread my needle. Thus I suffered for 
three weeks and my young heart was wounded 
and broken past all cure. My nature was 
changed from that time; a kind of depres- 
sion and melancholy, took the place of my 
natural gaiety. I can readily believe, such 
were my misery and agony, that one might 
die of homesickness. I recall It so well that 
I can diagnose Its symptoms which are like 
those of a fever. It comes over one In par- 

151 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

oxysms, followed by a great calm as from 
sudden cessation of acute pain, then by a 
choking sensation, a terrible sinking of the 
heart, down, down, all things swim in the con- 
vulsion of lost senses until tears once more 
relieve the overwrought soul. To add to my 
misery my two young cousins would have 
nothing to do with me. For the entire three 
weeks I never spoke a word; the moment I 
tried I choked and burst into tears. No 
wonder my cousins and other boys avoided 
me. Such a baby was past their comprehen- 
sion or tolerance. In my own natural place 
I should have had no more mercy on such an 
one. It is remarkable how early boys begin 
to trim each other into manly character; they 
instantly discover and attack any little weak- 
ness, and with rough and ready hand or 
tongue make the weakling or the upstart 
ashamed of himself. But no treatment harsh 
or kind could cure a homesick child, and one 
day my uncle said he was going to see my 
mother, and that I was to go with him. Oh, 
how my spirits recovered themselves ! I nev- 
er thought of the return; only to go, to be 
once more in my own home, with my own 
river, fields and companions, filled me with 

152 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

ecstacy. I went and I did not return. I did 
not know what was said between my mother 
and uncle; I saw him drive away and leave 
me behind with unspeakable joy. For many 
subsequent days I observed my mother's sor- 
rowful eyes when she spoke to me. Her 
first experiment, which promised so well, had 
railed. If she was disappointed, I was so- 
bered and much easier to manage from that 
time forth : I tried to please my mother. Our 
old way of life went on its usual round. Again 
the little Red House was happy. I resumed 
my play under the garden apple tree or on the 
great rock in the corner of the orchard. That 
year I mastered the alphabet, and I was giv- 
en a slate and pencil for the purpose of keep- 
ing me still when not saying my letters. The 
school days of that period are memorable to 
me, chiefly from the recesses and the noon in- 
termission an hour long. It was in that hour 
I became Intimate with some little girls, and 
found that I liked them as well as boy play- 
mates. How we choose our favorite compan- 
ions, no man is wise enough to know; yet 
choice there certainly was, with no formality 
or effort. How could it be otherwise? From 
the troop by the door or the roadside, eating 

153 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

their dinner from basket or pail or playing 
games, some predestined affinity drew away 
a boy and maid to the birchen bower, where 
with one mind they set up mimic housekeep- 
ing and forbade the entrance of strange chil- 
dren. There one cloak covered them both. 
Or they rambled hand in hand through the 
woods, or waded in the shallow water of 
Beaver brook down to the stone arch bridge 
where the confined streamlet gurgled softly 
over the slimy pebbles, and the arch echoed to 
the sound of their voices. What matter though 
pantalets and little breeches, pulled up as high 
as they could be, were wet with jumping and 
splashing; hot sun and warm blood would 
soon dry them. Wrinkles and limpness might 
betray them when they returned to the moth- 
er's fold at night, but her reproaches had no 
terror nor any restraint for happy children, 
who alone know the secrets of their own pleas- 
ures and have no remembrance of interference 
with them. With boy and boy there is a per- 
fect equality; no pretentions are allowed, ex- 
cept those of age. With maid and boy it is 
different. With my companion, I wished to 
appear superior, to show her things, even to 
attempt to explain them; and thus I myself 

154 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

learned to observe natural objects and to love 
them. She was my teacher, although I be- 
lieved myself hers. She listened, she looked 
up at me and asked another question, and so 
I see her to this day. How should I not be- 
come wise? If not, it is no fault of hers. 
My Launa, whom I led through the woods, 
along the water courses, and to whom 
I promised, that some day we would catch a 
cloud and ride around the sky visiting the 
moon and stars, yes, it was Launa to whom I 
promised everything, and promised because 
she wished it, and I felt it my business to 
seem able to gratify all her desires. She al- 
ready led me captive; well she knew it, and 
loved to test me with impossible demands. 
She dared me to do a hundred things, which 
attempting and failing, I boldly declared I 
had done. Just as willing to be deceived as 
I to deceive, she never questioned my lie, but 
led me on to some fresh feat, some brook or 
fence to leap, or inaccessible flower or berry 
to bring her. Already I got out of difficul- 
ties by changing the subject, by evading the 
challenge and diverting her to some other ob- 
ject, play or plan to which she as readily 
listened. How proud, how important and 

155 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

superior I felt and with what trust the little 
siren permitted it. Among all my apprentice- 
ships this to Launa Probana was that which 
taught me most and is most ineffaceable. 

THE SAW-MILL 

The next effort to make a craftsman of me 
was in my tenth year. I was put under the 
hands of a millwright. He set up the 
machinery of saw and grist mills and re- 
paired them when out of order. He 
had a saw mill and shingle mill of his own, 
but he was often away from home, especially 
in winter, and then I ran the saw mill alone. 
Its machinery was old fashioned and now 
obsolete, an upright saw, a carriage for the 
logs somewhat like that now in use, but much 
heavier and more clumsy. To set the logs 
to the required width of boards or other lum- 
ber we used inch rules, a bar made on pur- 
pose for the work and dogs to hold the logs 
in place. The power was water turned upon 
the floats of a large wheel. No large timber 
was left in the neighborhood, otherwise a boy 
of ten could not have run the mill alone ; but 
with a cant-hook I could usually manage to 

156 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

roll the log upon the carriage and put It In 
position. We ran off the slabs first and these 
were the perquisites of the mill owner. They 
were used In his own family and some were 
sold or given to poor widows and others. The 
saw mill was run only In winter time; the 
water of the mill pond was drawn off In early 
spring, and where It had flooded the land, 
grass grew In summer. While the log was 
running through the saw, It was my never end- 
ing delight to lean out of an opening In the 
side of the mill and watch the tallrace rush 
from under the building. All winter I looked 
forward to the day when the great gates of 
the dam would be raised and the pond dis- 
appear In a few hours. I cannot exactly des- 
cribe the feeling with which, after a few days 
of sunshine, I walked over the ground where 
the water had stood; a strange commingling 
of awe and curiosity, especially as I threaded 
the now dry, narrow and deep canal, which 
led the water of the pond to the mill. There 
I often walked just to enjoy In Imagination 
the thought, what If the water should sud- 
denly come pouring down upon me ! I even 
selected the best places to escape up the rough 
stone walls of the canal. All my boyhood I 

157 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

enjoyed thrilling imaginary perils, and the 
planning means of escape. The walls of this 
canal were made of irregular stones from 
the field. Alternately wet and dry they had 
taken on beautiful colors, variegated accord- 
ing to the character of the stone, and between 
them in summer, and quite covering them in 
places, grew many kinds of wild flowers, 
mosses and ferns, and, most splendid of all, 
the cardinal flower. The canal was always 
damp, and a few frogs and green snakes made 
it their summer home. Do not imagine I 
made any such observations as these at the 
time, least of all that I then knew the cardinal 
flower by its correct name. I saw, I felt, I 
dreamed; now I remember and know a little 
more. I lacked the right name and reason for 
most things, but knowing nothing, I named 
everything after my own fancy and found 
the creation as good and sweet as the Crea- 
tor at the end of his week's work. Every 
boy is a new Adam, and christens the world 
of his senses in the most primitive figure of 
language, metonomy. 

The terms of my apprenticeship included a 
new suit of clothes each year, and that I 
should be sent to school in the summer. The 

158 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

clothes were never forthcoming and my 
mother had to furnish them. My master 
gave me my boots for winter and shoes 
for summer, but I went barefooted seven 
months of tlie year. This was no hard- 
ship. How I hated to wear shoes on 
the only day when it was compulsory, 
Sunday. It cost me tears to learn to tie a 
double bow knot with my shoestring, as my 
master insisted upon my doing, and this was 
the only thing during my apprenticeship that 
he took pains to teach me — to tie a shoe- 
string. He was a silent, self-absorbed man 
with a stern manner, a square set jaw, wide 
mouth and ponderous ears. He was very 
fond of his two little girls, three and four 
years old; but he never had a kind word for 
me. However, he was not peculiar in this re- 
spect. Boys were not cosseted in those days, 
but made to feel the rod and keep their place. 
It seems to me now that I must have been to 
him a necessary nuisance, tolerated for what 
service I could render, yet I was not unhappy. 
My mother lived across the road and I could 
see her every day. I had some time for 
play; the mills, the tools, the dam and canals 
interested me and beyond all, I fished to my 

159 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

heart's content. There was an old mongrel 
dog at my heels wherever I went, and togeth- 
er we hunted woodchucks and squirrels with- 
out a gun. In the evening, by the stove, he 
still hunted them in his dreams, whimpering 
and barking as soon as he was sound asleep, 
and I myself often had the same dream when 
I had been unusually excited by the sport. In 
the autumn I set snares for partridges which 
I sold to the Boston stage drivers for nine- 
pence apiece. Well do I remember the high 
hope with which I entered the silent wood in 
early morning to examine my snares, the ex- 
hilaration when I found a poor partridge in 
the noose, limp and dead, with a white film 
drawn over her eyes. Pity for bird or beast 
or human beings was an unknown feeling 
then: I liked to torment such life as I had 
power over, to see it suffer. The sale of 
partridges furnished me with considerable 
spending money; for what I spent it, I know 
not. I am only certain I did not hoard it, 
as I have never found any ancient silver pieces 
in my purse or pockets. I can think of no 
more entertaining account book than one 
which should show the acquisition and out- 
lay of a boy's money; his financial statement 

1 60 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

from his fifth to his fifteenth year. I should 
like to audit such an account and, however, it 
came out I would agree to find it correctly 
cast, balanced and properly vouched; for a 
boy always gets his money's worth and thinks 
he has what he wants. In his trades with 
other boys, money seldom plays any part, and 
the little swindler always believes he has got 
the best of the bargain. And why? Because 
he has what he coveted, and what was anoth- 
er's. Somehow the other fellow's knife Is a 
little better than his own, it is three blades to 
his two. When he finds the cheat he has only 
to swap again. In this way I traded a dozen 
times in one summer and came out with one 
blade, but a bright brass haft. 

By this time I could read and even Imitate 
the copies set in the writing books. This, 
however, was not the real method by which I 
had learned to use the pen or rather pencil. 
Much more skill was acquired in little notes 
to Launa Probana during school hours, passed 
furtively under the desks and benches or hid- 
den In a book which I was suddenly anxious 
to borrow or lend. What nothings we wrote ! 
With what pains and searchings of the brain 
for words ! Still I filled my bit of paper while 

i6i 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

Launa wrote only three words, yet her name 
signed in the tiniest letters satisfied me. With 
that name in my vest pocket I felt her near me, 
fixed my attention upon my book again, and 
learned my lessons more easily. I was conscious 
that she watched all my movements out of the 
corner of her eye, and at recitations it was she, 
who, when I hesitated and was lost, bending 
her head down so as not to be observed by 
the teacher, whispered softly the right word 
and saved me from shame. Thus in a thou- 
sand ways she repaid the boy's devotion, and 
however out-spelt or out-grammared he might 
be, where he stood, was for her the head of 
the class. What lessons we learned, not in 
any book nor taught by any teacher! After 
a year or two more of winter saw-mill and 
summer school my teacher thought I was old 
enough to write compositions, an exercise 
usual in all New England common schools. 
Long before this I thought myself com- 
petent and was ambitious to begin. It seemed 
too much a school exercise to be undertaken 
out of it. I saw the older pupils on appointed 
afternoons stand up in their places and read 
from their slates the compositions they had 
written. It fired my ambition beyond any of 

162 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

the other exercises or lessons. It seemed to 
me the very pinnacle of greatness to stand up 
and read a composition before the whole 
school. How I labored over my first little 
essay, not being able to think of anything, or 
to find language; how I began without any 
real beginning sentences that had no end; how 
I strung together words without connection 
or sense, how the whole school tittered and 
made faces as I read, how I sat down flushed, 
trembling, completely overwhelmed with mor- 
tification. It pains me even to remember. What 
would Launa care for me now ! Without 
seeming to notice her I looked over to where 
she sat and saw that she was weeping. I did 
not speak to her for a whole week. Thus I 
punished myself, and all the week pondered 
how I could write something which should 
make her again proud of me and reinstate 
myself with my teacher and schoolmates. 
Suddenly It occurred to me that next time I 
would choose a subject of which I knew some- 
thing. Wonderful discovery, which has been 
of use to me ever since; a bit as well as reins 
— this Is the reason why I have not been a 
prolific writer. Between one book and the 
next I am totally forgotten. I found also thus 

163 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

early that one needs a muse. I had made a 
blunder in not taking Launa Into my counsels, 
say rather into my mind, for I had never 
once thought of her while writing, nor that 
she would be my audience. No, I thought only 
of myself, and the distinction I should win all 
for myself. Thus experienced, I did not re- 
peat my mistake. When we were next called 
upon for compositions, I coaxed Launa to 
go with me at the nooning to the shade of the 
old blacksmith shop, where I proposed that 
we should write them together. There sen- 
tence by sentence I made my little essay, cov- 
ering one side of my slate, with Launa for in- 
spirer and critic. My subject was the saw- 
mill, that one I knew best. There was a 
pricking of ears in the schoolroom when I 
named my humble subject, and an elder boy 
by my side whispered, *'Now, give us some 
sawdust." I prospered this time and won a 
smile from Launa. Had I helped her at all 
in her own composition? I know not; yet 
when she read, it seemed to me I had written 
it myself. Such has always been myexperience 
in regard to writing which I have admired, 
and thought I could do as well — until I tried. 
Thus passed two happy summers and two 

164 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

lonely impatient winters; then I was ill with 
a fever and came to the doors of death. I 
never resumed my apprenticeship to the mill- 
wright. For some years succeeding my ill- 
ness I suffered from periodical sick headache 
which, before and after, was accompanied by 
a dreadful depression, an indescribable 
apathy, a distate for food, for play, for every- 
thing: I wished myself dead. My mother 
and sisters were very tender to me at this 
time; they amused me, they petted me, and 
in the evening read to me stories out of Mer- 
ry's Museum and from the school readers. It 
was at this time I was sent on a visit to Bos- 
ton, perhaps for my health and spirits. I say 
sent, for I went alone in a stage coach the 
thirty miles. Much preparation was made 
for my journey and many letters passed to 
relatives in Boston concerning it. I had a 
new cloak lined with bright red flannel, home- 
made, and a cap with an extremely flat crown 
and a tassel that fell upon my shoulder. These 
were the first articles of clothing that made 
me feel that everybody was looking at me, a 
feeling something between vanity and embar- 
rassment. My cousin met me in Boston at 
the stage office and took me to his house in 

165 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

the old West End, at that time the residence 
of the respectable middle class, with here and 
there some more wealthy citizens. There 
were a few shops at the corners of the streets; 
but I did not venture beyond the street where 
my cousin lived and saw nothing at all of the 
city. I was taken to church on Sunday and 
once to the Museum, where I saw the elder 
Booth in Shylock. The only scene that made 
an Impression upon me was that where Shy- 
lock Is about to take his pound of flesh. He 
squatted upon the floor, his wild and terrible 
face turned directly upon me, as It seemed, 
while he sharpened his knife upon his rusty 
shoe. I was filled with terror and began to 
cry and begged to be taken away. Quite an- 
gry, yet pitying me, too, I suppose, my cousin 
led me out and home where I went at once to 
bed, covering my head tightly, unable to sleep 
for apprehension lest I should be discovered 
by Shylock. At the Players' Club, in New 
York City, In the last winter of Edwin 
Booth's life, I related this incident to him as 
a childish tribute to his father's power. "Yes," 
he said, "that was my father, and such things 
often happened among women and children 
when he was playing that character. He was 

i66 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

dangerous at times, not to his audiences, but 
occasionally to his fellow actors." 

I returned from Boston not much wiser 
nor more travelled than when I went. I 
found nothing there that gave me so much 
pleasure as the freedom of my own field, my 
sports and my companions. When asked what 
I had seen, what I had done, I candidly con- 
fessed, nothing; yet among boys I did feel a 
certain pride because I was the only one 
among them who had been to Boston. And 
I have found the result of nearly all travel Is 
little more than the cheap avenue to conversa- 
tion between those who have travelled over 
the same ground, or the feeling of superiority 
that one has wandered farther. 

Although I was more active and restless 
than most boys, ever longing, yet with no def- 
inite object, I believe I should always have re- 
mained In the place of my birth, except for 
family exigencies, for I had no ambitions, no 
special talent nor practical faculty. When I 
reflect on the futility of literature without ge- 
nius, or the miserly rewards of scholarship, 
or the disastrous conclusion In a majority of 
business enterprises, I confess the life of a 
New England farmer Is to be preferred. It 

167 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

was so ordered that opportunities, which I 
never could have made for myself, came to 
me unsought and without effort. Such edu- 
cation as I have, a miscellany of odds and 
ends of learning, and such things as I have ac- 
complished, are the chance results of various 
and disconnected Impulses; and God himself 
has given me my beautiful friends. I have 
found them waiting for me all along my path, 
and their attachment has always filled me with 
astonishment and gratitude; for I cannot 
think it Is anything I have done that should 
deserve It. So I relegate It to that indefinable, 
unconscious self which Is hidden from our 
own knowledge. On the whole, who is he, 
that would not rather be loved for himself 
than for his book, his horses or his honors? 
He, who Is capable of friendship, and Inspires 
It, Is happier than Alexander with worlds con- 
quered and to be conquered. 

After much counselling and agitating of 
the change, my mother moved from Belllng- 
ham, which was her native place, to Hopkin- 
ton; and, from this time forth to the end of 
her life, she continued to change her residence 
from town to town as work, cheaper rent, or 
the persuasion of friends Induced her. My 

1 68 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

eldest sister and I went with her. The change 
filled me with a pleasant excitement, although 
we were going to the same place and the very 
same house where I had suffered so much 
from home-sickness. I did not then know that 
in leaving my birthplace I left behind me the 
fountain head of half my later musings, re- 
grets and imaginings. In returning now, I 
find naught but the graves of my family, the 
elm of my childhood, fallen to the ground, its 
bleached trunk and larger limbs reminding me 
of a skeleton, the well filled with stones, and 
the Red House converted into a woodshed. 
The river still flows by; one great pine still 
murmurs and wonders what has become of 
the children once playing in its shade; the 
pond, the arched bridge which spanned its 
outflow are unchanged. And Launa, I fear 
to inquire what has become of her, though I 
never lost her. She followed and reappeared 
in all my wanderings. 

BOOTMAKING 

In Hopkinton I began to feel myself too 
old to play with girls. Boys were numerous 
and knew more than those I had met before. 

169 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

I soon caught up with their manners and 
customs, and in some respects bettered 
them. I outdid them in mischief, looted 
the best apple trees, beat them at ball 
and managed to escape my tasks oftener. 
My work was stitching the counters of 
boots; my mother and sister filled their 
spare time with the same employment. In- 
deed, at this period it was our sole means of 
support. The making of boots, pegged boots, 
double soled and welted, with legs treed until 
they were as stiff and hard as boards, was the 
chief occupation of all that portion of the 
town called Hayden Row. For a mile or 
more up and down this street were the houses 
of the bootmakers, each with its little shop, 
either attached to the house, or built in the 
yard. Each had from two to six workers. 
Generally every part of the boot was made in 
these shops ; the stock was cut and distributed 
from some larger shop to which the finished 
boots were returned to be put in cases and 
shipped. The smaller shops were the centers 
for the gossip, rumors and discussions which 
agitated the community. There men sharp- 
ened their wits upon each other, played prac- 
tical jokes, sang, argued the questions of that 

170 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

day, especially slavery, and arranged every 
week from early spring to late autumn a 
match game of ball either among themselves 
or the bootmakers of neighboring towns for 
Saturday afternoon, which was their half hol- 
iday. All this was possible where the men sat 
on low benches, making scarcely any noise, 
and doing work which did not often require 
concentrated attention. My uncle was a stern 
abolitionist, as were the other bootmakers; 
and before I knew It, I was one; nor did I 
know at that time that there was any other 
opinion In the world. Little did I understand 
or care for the subject. My uncle took the 
Liberator, and It was sometimes read aloud In 
the shop, and I can remember feeling angry 
at some of the stories of cruelty to slaves. I 
am glad I was brought up In such an atmos- 
phere, for I have not changed on this point, 
as I have In so many other of my beliefs. The 
only church In the place was the Methodist, 
and my mother had, almost for the first time 
since her conversion at the age of fourteen, an 
opportunity of mingling with the brethren 
and sisters of her own faith. The chief finan- 
cial pillar of the Methodists of New Eng- 
land, Lee Claflin, was a citizen of Hopkinton, 

171 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

although his place of business was Boston. 
He was, when I knew him, a rather short, 
fat man with a large head and a face beam- 
ing with benevolence and good will. To be 
noticed, to be spoken to by him was a great 
honor, so that when he laid his hand upon 
my head and inquired If I were a child of 
grace, although I had not the least Idea what 
he meant, I was equal to the occasion and 
said, "Yes, sir." My mother smiled at my 
confession and I have no doubt her heart was 
made glad; for though she was not at all 
rigid In the religious discipline of her chil- 
dren, the great desire of her life was that 
they should be converted and saved from the 
toils of Satan. I had, as early as I had any 
conception of my own, a certain image of Sa- 
tan as something huge, an aggregation of all 
the largest objects with which I was most fa- 
miliar, arms and legs as long as the tallest 
trees and church steeples, and It was of his 
size that I was afraid, rather than of his 
temptations and torments, which I heard 
thundered from the pulpit. I had a fear, born 
of sundry rough encounters with larger boys, 
of that which was superior In strength, and to 
me Satan was as a big and ugly boy, whom I 

172 



. APPRENTICESHIPS 

sometimes looked for along the road, expect- 
ing him to dart out from behind the stone 
walls, or clumps of bushes. Many writers 
have said harsh things about the former re- 
ligious creeds and preaching of our New Eng- 
land forefathers, especially in their effects 
upon children. I do not agree with them. 
It did often save the wayward from peril, and 
offered a rich field for the imaginative inter- 
pretations of children. What does the mod- 
ern child find in a modern sermon to give him 
any sort of quickening? Yes, my dear pulpit 
orators, with no wing left to imp your elo- 
quence, recover Satan in all his immense, 
Miltonic grandeur and energy. 

Those happy Hopkinton days were filled 
with many new and fascinating objects and 
boyish pursuits to which I gave an undivided 
heart. I learned all the tricks and sleight-of- 
hand with which the bootmakers amused 
themselves and puzzled each other In their 
shops. I was long in discovering the secret 
of the best trick of all, which was making 
names and pictures appear on the bare plaster 
of the shop walls by striking on them with a 
woolen cap such as we all wore. Then there 
were all sorts of string, button and ball tricks, 

173 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

and my pockets were full of articles with 
which to astonish the uninitiated. He, who 
introduced or invented a new trick or puzzle, 
was the hero of the shops for a day; and for 
many days after, as soon as learned, the men 
and boys were confounding each other by its 
performance. In those days Signor Blitz was 
travelling the country, giving his necromantic 
shows, and left behind him everywhere a 
taste for his wonderful performances. Our 
ingenuity was exercised in weaving watch 
chains in various patterns with silk twist; in 
making handsome bats for ball, and in mak- 
ing the balls themselves with the ravelled yarn 
of old stockings, winding it over a bit of rub- 
ber, and in sewing on a cover of fine thin calf 
skin. This ball did not kill as it struck one, 
and, instead of being thrown to the man on 
the base, was more usually thrown at the man 
running between them. He who could make 
a good shot of that kind was much applauded, 
and he who was hit was laughed at and felt 
very sheepish. That was true sport, plenty 
of fun and excitement, yet not too serious 
and severe. The issue of the game was 
talked over for a week. I did my daily stint 
of stitching with only one thing in mind, to 

174 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

play ball when through; for the boys played 
every afternoon. When there was to be an 
important match game the men practised af- 
ter the day's work was done. 

Meanwhile my education was entirely 
neglected. I attended no school at this time, 
either summer or winter, and came as near 
acquiring a trade as I have ever done. In 
fact I longed to be able to make the whole 
of a boot, to last, peg, trim, gum, blackball 
and stone it, all processes of the craft as then 
practised. But how does one know when he 
is learning? I was laying up a good store of 
things more valuable than any in books, whilst 
the free life I led was preparing in me the 
soft and impressionable tablets on which could 
be traced future experiences and acquisitions 
of a more intellectual kind. Tomorrow would 
come and this was its preparation. Yet not 
consciously can one prepare for it all that it 
is to hold. I became a graduate of the shops 
of the bootmakers before acquiring the whole 
of their trade, but not before absorbing most 
of that which constituted the overflow of their 
lives. I began to imitate the manners and 
conversation of men. Ridiculed for this, I re- 
treated into myself and became more ob- 

175 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

servant and more silent. A small, very dim 
yet new light appeared to me — reflection, si- 
lent thoughts at night, and when alone ; ques- 
tionings with no least effort at answers. My 
new world as yet was not much more than 
a mile square, as in my native town; within 
that mile I knew every natural object and all 
the people. Everybody called me by my first 
name, prefixing, usually, "little curly" or 
"snub-nose," and my companions gave me 
nicknames according to their likes or dislikes. 
I much affected the company of boys older 
than myself, especially my cousins, whom I 
naturally looked up to and very much ad- 
mired. They would have none of me, called 
me "nuisance" and "tag-tail." This last epi- 
thet wounded me sorely and made me slink 
away like a whipped cur. Added to my mile- 
square world, I had now also the germs of 
memory. Faintly and at long intervals I re- 
membered my life in Bellingham; but it 
seemed another planet, far off, indistinct, and 
I had as yet no desire to return to it. 

LOVE AND LUXURY 

My mother had three daughters, one had 
died within a year of my father's death. She 

176 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

was the belle of the neighborhood, fair- 
haired and blue-eyed, not very tall, grace- 
ful and attractive. Every one admired 
her and her friends loved her ardent- 
ly. She had already ventured into verse, 
religious in tone, and affectionate effusions to 
her girl friends. With a little education she 
had begun to teach school. She was my first 
teacher and the school her first. We were 
very fond of each other. Her kiss was the 
only one I did not shrink from and try to 
escape. She took most of the care of me, and 
I always slept in the same room with her. 
Usually I went to sleep in her bed, and in the 
morning crept back into it. When death came 
and took her away from me, when I found, 
in the darkened room to which my mother 
led me where she lay in a white dress, that she 
did not kiss me nor even speak, I was fright- 
ened and awed. In a short time I forgot her; 
but before I grewto be a man I recovered her, 
and shed the tears long due her love and loss. 
Another older sister was already a successful 
teacher in the district schools of the region, 
so successful indeed, that she taught winters 
as well as summers, which was unusual for 
women teachers to attempt. Several winters 

177 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

she had undertaken schools, the pupils of 
which were so unruly that no man could be 
found who was able to control them. At 
length, through friends who knew her success 
and abilities, she was invited to take charge of 
a private school in Norwich, Connecticut. Her 
pupils were from the wealthy and influential 
families of the upper, the aristocratic part of 
the city, round about Savin Hill and along the 
Yantic riverside. After she had become es- 
tablished there, she took me back with her 
at the end of a spring vacation. I found my- 
self among a very different class of children 
from any I had ever known, highbred, well- 
mannered and well-dressed, I felt at first 
abashed and suppressed; but as we were all 
children, more or less unconscious of distinc- 
tions in rank, democrats at heart, I soon came 
to terms with them; if there were any bar- 
riers, they were broken down as soon as we 
began to play together. There is no realm 
of equality like that of the playground; there 
you are estimated on your merits, your skill, 
your honor and good nature. In two weeks I 
felt perfectly at home, and already had two 
or three cronies to whom I was devoted. I 
dreaded the hour of my return to my mother. 

178 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

It came; I found myself again among men 
in shirtsleeves, and boys in blue jean overalls; 
my mother's oven no more busy than of old, 
my hands black with leather and sticky with 
wax, I, who had been eating the fine fare of 
rich men's tables with silver forks and knives 
that shone like mirrors. The world had been 
changed in a few weeks and fifty miles of 
travel. I felt myself no part of anything 
around me; I loathed it and longed to return 
to my sister. I had had a taste of better 
things, or so they seemed, or was it their nov- 
elty? I began to look down with shame and 
disgust at the humble life around me. Above 
all I wanted to escape my task and wondered 
how I had ever wished to be a bootmaker. 

Norwich was a small and beautiful city, 
well planted with trees, the houses large and 
set in ample ground. Two rivers meet there 
to form a third, the Thames, at the head of 
which is the port or Landing as it is called. 
At the port of the city I had for the first 
time seen steamers and sailing vessels. Strange 
and wonderful creatures they were to me, and 
I asked a thousand questions about them with- 
out comprehending in the least the answers. I 
was told they sailed down the river with the 

179 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

tide, past New London, then out upon the 
sea, and at once and ever since I always be- 
hold vessels, as it were, double, one near and 
another far away, disappearing on some vast 
level plain. Here was water enough, water, 
the most fascinating thing in nature, tempting 
by its dangers to boyish adventures, and I de- 
termined to be a sailor as soon as I was old 
enough and could get back to Norwich. How 
to get back was the problem I vexed myself 
over day and night for weeks and months. My 
sister returning home for her summer vaca- 
tion, I continued to tease and coax until she 
consented to my wishes. My small trunk, cov- 
ered with hairy cow hide, was packed with my 
few belongings, and with a gay heart I left 
the town and my mother's door never to re- 
turn permanently, and as blind as a stone to 
what I was going away for; I was going — 
that was all that concerned me. There was 
no future; time does not exist for children; 
yesterdays are faint, tomorrows undreamed, 
today endless. Arriving in Norwich, at once, 
I felt at home. I met my former playmates 
without a greeting, and just as if we had not 
been separated for half a year. Nothing was 
changed; we resumed our sports, and every 

1 80 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

afternoon at the close of school, in which I 
was now a pupil, we played among the cedars 
of Savin Hill; or else we paired off and spent 
our time with the dogs, rabbits and pigeons 
and other pets owned by my different com- 
panions. I had myself one hen which the 
good dame, with whom my sister and I board- 
ed, allowed me to keep in a large box in her 
yard. I spent much of my time, when without 
companions, with my hen. I made her many 
nests in hopes of enticing her to lay eggs, for 
which I was promised a cent apiece by dame 
Onion. I cannot recall how I came by this 
hen, nor what was her final fate. What trifles 
we pursue ! What trifles connect the seven 
ages of life, more often remembered than the 
real steps of our career. So let biddy spread 
her wing as wide as Jove's eagle, and eat 
gravel with Juno's peacock; and in this narra- 
tion I keep company with my betters, who 
have not lowered their dignity by confessing 
their obligations to the beasts of the field, the 
birds of the air and to all those friendly crea- 
tures which dwell in the shelter of the house 
and the barnyard. So, little red hen, I leave 
thee here on the road by which I strayed, 
playing and singing, into the fearful arena of 

i8i 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

life, walled and thousand-eyed; whether we 
fall or triumph, the spectacle and the wonder 
of an hour. 

Whether it were better to be the limpet 
fixed to its rock, forever free from change, or 
the wild gull soaring over shores and sea, now 
wading in the mud, now riding glor- 
iously on the crest of the billows, 
is a query which has often agitated me since 
the time I abandoned the home of my child- 
hood. For me there was no return now to 
the rock. I thought of my home with a 
gloomy dread lest I should have to return to 
it. Such forebodings, however, were rare and 
did not interfere with my complete enjoyment 
of present pleasures. Along with them I 
caught the manners of the little aristocrats of 
my sister's school. It was an ideal company 
of boys and girls, handsome, refined and inno- 
cent. My sister herself was a natural lady 
and rigorous in her demands for perfect con- 
duct on the part of her pupils. She spared me 
least of all, as more needing such discipline, 
and also, I suppose, that she might escape any 
suspicion of sisterly partiality. I have ever 
been extremely open to personal influences 
and environment, and apt to take on the cus- 

182 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

toms and opinions of those with whom I 
mingle. What one gains so Is a part of his 
education. It is true there Is a lurking dan- 
ger as well as advantage, and we may be 
wrecked or carried Into a safe harbor accord- 
ing to the accidents of life and the power or 
feebleness of the will. My good fortune was 
seemingly great at this time, having such a sis- 
ter to watch over me and such Influences 
around me. On the other hand I was dis- 
qualified by it for living the life of a poor man 
which circumstances have made imperative; 
and It required many years to reconcile me to 
my lot and to discover other riches by which 
a man might make his life honorable and hap- 
py. My sister's pupils were affectionately at- 
tached to her and this feeling was soon shared 
by their parents. She visited among them con- 
tinually, and always took me with her. I saw 
the inside of the houses of the rich, the lead- 
ing citizens of Norwich, governors and ex- 
governors of the state, senators, the Rock- 
wells, Greens, Tylers, Williams, Backuses, 
Lusks, and others, and became used to the 
elegancies and luxuries of their households. 
My sister seemed to be recognized as their 
equal, as well she might be. She was a woman 

183 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

to win her way anywhere ; distinguished look- 
ing, full of tact and efficiency. She was tall, 
with a perfect figure and graceful movement. 
Her eyes were large and dark, her hair black 
and abundant, in this being the only one of 
my mother's children who resembled her, as 
she did also in the contour of her face and 
nose. She was of a hopeful and joyous tem- 
perament and full of energy; by this latter 
gift she had raised herself from the humblest 
position to one of influence and acquired in 
no long time much reputation as a remarkably 
successful teacher, and her services were 
in constant demand. She was also a favorite 
in all classes of society and knew how to ad- 
just herself to the humblest and the highest of 
her fellow creatures. From the time of her 
father's death she had been the prop of the 
family, the mover in all their plans and the 
provider of their needs. Over me she 
had a special charge and a sacred duty, for 
my father, conscious of the too gentle nature 
of his wife and the poverty in which he was 
about to leave her, had on his deathbed, com- 
mitted, had indeed made a solemn gift of his 
little boy to the daughter whom he trusted 
most; and for fifty years did she fulfil that 

184 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

trust. On her tombstone are engraved these 
brief but true words: ''Faithful daughter, sis- 
ter, friend, teacher." New England has been 
full of such devoted, self-sacrificing daughters 
and sisters, and still is. I do not single her 
out as exceptional, but to give her the tribute 
she merits, and that she may not be among the 
uncounted and unremembered where these 
pages shall be read. 

In my sister's school besides good manners, 
which now seem to me the best part of my 
education, I learned to draw and to sing; and 
In which I delighted most. It were hard to 
say. Never before had I heard any music, 
except that of the doleful and droning church 
choir. We sang simple songs about nature, 
conduct, duties to the Heavenly Father, to 
parents and teacher. Their notes lingered 
in my ears for a great many years, and I can 
still hum some of them. We drew plain fig- 
ures, blocks, cones, the sides and roofs of 
buildings and outlines of trees. In penman- 
ship I made no progress, and It was always 
unformed and illiterate until I was a man, 
and took it In hand without a teacher. My 
two years' detention from school did not seem 
to put me Into classes below me in age. I 

185 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

could read and spell very well. There were 
other longer or shorter periods when my edu- 
cation was entirely interrupted; yet I did not 
have to begin my studies exactly where I had 
left off. Something carries us along uncon- 
sciously and a natural intelligence bridges 
over the superficial differences between our- 
selves and our associates. How often have I de- 
ceived myself into thinking I knew something 
when it was merely a borrowed acquirement, 
as it were, a cuticular absorption from a tran- 
sient environment or interest, from classmates, 

social circles, clubs and books. Great books 
are the most flattering deceivers of all. I nev- 
er read one that did not touch me nearly in 
this way. The fall to my own proper level is 
painful, but has been somewhat stayed and 
alleviated by reading another. Being of this 
plastic, imitative nature, I soon took on 
the manners and childish ideas of my com- 
panions in my sister's school. I was already 
aristocrat enough to look down with indiffer- 
ence upon the boys of the Landing and other 
parts of the town, and at a good safe distance, 
to call them by some insulting name. We nev- 
er came to blows, nor ever nearer than a 
stone's throw. By the natural elective afiini- 

i86 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

ties, which seem to be more marked among 
boys and girls than among men and women, I 
formed the closest intimacy with two broth- 
ers about my own age. They belonged to 
the leading family among my sister's pa- 
trons. Their father was a wealthy, retired 
manufacturer who had held every honor Nor- 
wich had to bestow. The boys were in- 
dulged in all their wishes, in every kind of pet 
animal that walks or flies, a menagerie of 
small creatures in cages, ponies for the sad- 
dle and dogs to follow. In these I was al- 
lowed to share as if my own, and their house 
was as much mine as theirs, more often tak- 
ing supper in it than at my boarding place. 
Thus becoming familiar with and possessing 
the pleasures which wealth can furnish a boy, 
I knew not what a fall I was preparing for 
myself when the thread of my destiny should 
lead me back into its narrow and tortuous 
path. How is any one responsible for such 
passages in his life which carry him into sit- 
uations and form in him tastes and propensi- 
ties that must be relinquished with much sor- 
row or maintained with peril? But the hour 
of doom was not yet, and my pleasant days 
had no omen that their sun would ever set. 

187 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

In truth that sun has never set on the days 
when I was In the company and close beside 
the one girl in my sister's school with whom 
I felt the passionless, but none the less ardent 
delight. Laugh who will— "Her sweet smile 
haunts me still." Never was sweeter or more 
captivating on the face of a girl or woman, 
and it was perpetually there, whether she 
spoke or only looked in your eyes. By it I 
should even now recognize her among a thou- 
sand. If I had then known that souls are rein- 
carnated, I should have known by her smile 
that she was the Launa Probana of my earliest 
awakening. I never played with her, but I 
was in the same class; she was at the head of 
it in spelling exercises, where, in the then cus- 
tomary manner, we went up when we mas- 
tered a word missed by the pupil below. I 
was always struggling to stand next to her, 
and when I did, I was happy. That is how 
I learned to spell so well! I had become 
diffident with girls and as much more so with 
her as I was fond of being with her. Con- 
sequently we spoke to each other but little. 
To be where she was was enough. Those in- 
clinations and awkward attentions, which be- 
tray the situation to the onlooker, I manl- 

i88 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

fested always in her presence without sus- 
picion of being observed. I was alert to win 
her notice by any sort of indirection, and em- 
barrassed to speechlessness when I had won 
it. There were certain occasions when I 
could count on having her for my companion, 
when we found ourselves together by some 
inevitable attraction. These were on the ex- 
cursions which my sister was fond of taking 
with her whole school to places of interest in 
the vicinity of Norwich. The holiday free- 
dom, the excitement, made it easier for me to 
be more demonstrative than usual toward the 
new-found Launa. Yet we were still too 
young and sensitive for indulgence in the 
physical tokens of affection. We often walked 
hand in hand, yet under cover of that which 
was a permissible and usual gallantry among 
all the children of the school, the secret at- 
tachment of any pair was pleasantly and suf- 
ficiently hidden even from themselves. Won- 
drous were the places we visited; places of 
historic or natural interest; to Groton by 
steamboat, where we saw Fort Griswold and 
Its monument to the heroes of the Revolution- 
ary fight, and Its still surviving heroine, Moth- 
er Bailey, who tore up her petticoat to make 

189 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

cartridges for the gunners. We called upon 
the venerable woman In her neat, little cot- 
tage. She was very proud of her fame. She 
related the story of the fight, not omitting her 
part in it. "Do you think I am a very old 
woman?" she said to us. "Well, see," and 
in an instant she was whirling around the 
room in an old fashioned jig. Then we re- 
turned to the Fort, and in its enclosure we 
opened our baskets and ate our cakes and ap- 
ples. I sometimes think that was the hap- 
piest day of my life. Certainly it was the 
very beginning of what is called seeing the 
world. What, is not the first steamboat ride, 
and with your sweetheart, the first fort, the 
scene of a battle and the most celebrated her- 
oine of the Revolution something? My sweet- 
heart was the only thing not entirely novel; 
her smiles ever recalled the memory of Launa 
Probana. All the way home we stood on deck, 
leaning over the rail, watching the swirl and 
foam from the paddle wheels, and our tongues 
were loosened. As usual, in my attempts at 
seeming superior to girl companions, I under- 
took to explain things about which I knew 
nothing. Now, any boy could put me down 
in a minute with, "how big you talk;" but 

190 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

my gentler hearer led me on with her ac- 
quiescence and her trusting, wondering eyes. 
The teacher's brother was somebody in her 
estimation; he was a new kind of boy. The 
other boys she had known all her life, com- 
monplace, tiresome teasers or clowns. That 
awkward impediment, a rival, I had not to 
contest or fear. All went well with us until 
I fell from the ranks of the aristocracy and 
became a menial shop boy in a store. But be- 
fore that eclipse there were other happy days 
and joyous experiences. Together we visited 
the grave of the Indian Uncas, and the rem- 
nant of his tribe at Montville; we drove 
often to Fishville, where was an estate laid 
out in a foreign fashion with grottoes, mazes, 
fountains, strange trees and shrubbery and a 
museum of curiosities. 

Doubtless it was not the intention of my 
sister at this time to educate me. Perhaps she 
saw nothing in me worthy of it. I do not 
much wonder at her conviction, if such it was, 
as I look at a daguerreotype of myself taken 
about that period, a round head, mostly hair, 
a low forehead, a pair of round eyes, thick 
nose and lips and short neck, altogether just 
such a solid, stolid child as one would expect 

191 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

to see from the country, bred in the sun and 
cold, and fed on brown bread and milk. My 
being with my sister, and a pupil in her school 
was a temporary expedient until a place could 
be found for me. At length it was found, a 
situation in a dry goods store, where I could 
earn my board and clothing. Thus without 
warning I fell completely out of the ranks of 
the elect and again returned to servitude as 
a shop boy, a runner of errands, a builder of 
fires and floor-sweeper. 

SHOP BOY 

In country stores the man or boy behind 
the counter was an enviable person. Many 
boys had no higher ambition than to be a 
storekeeper. I was now behind the counter, 
and although there was nothing in a 
dry goods shop to interest me as in the 
country store, with its varied assort- 
ment of goods, tools, crockery and can- 
dies, I felt rather proud of my posi- 
tion, especially when permitted to wait on a 
customer. He seemed an inferior sort of a 
person, and I had no idea at first of conciliat- 
ing him and making a sale. It was not then 

192 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

the custom to observe a fixed price and simply 
show the goods ; but clerks were expected and 
instructed to use persuasion, to expatiate on 
quality and beauty, and to take less than they 
first asked. The cost price was marked with 
secret characters; the selling price was vari- 
able. The more you could get out of a gulli- 
ble customer, the better; and he who could 
get the most was the smartest clerk. A thrifty 
purchaser would beat down the price little by 
little, the sharp clerk yielding with many prot- 
estations until a last offer was made, when, 
with feigned hesitation, the clerk would wrap 
up the goods. One thinks he has bought a 
cheap bargain, the other figures the profit and 
laughs in his sleeve. It was not my particular 
duty to w^it upon customers except in a rush 
of trade, or early in the day before the oth- 
er clerks had arrived. I opened the store in 
the morning, swept the floors and sidewalk, 
dusted the counters, filled the lamps, and in 
winter built the fire. During the day I ran 
on errands, delivered goods and was the fag 
of the proprietor and his two clerks. I soon 
chafed under the confinement, and when sent 
out of the store I made no haste to return; 
the farther away the bundle was to be deliv- 

193 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

ered the better I liked It, and I always took 
the longest way, loitering about, making ac- 
quaintance with strange boys, dogs and any 
wayside apple or pear tree. If possible I 
skirted the region of the wharves and the 
rivers, where I always found something in- 
teresting going on, a vessel arriving or leav- 
ing, sailors chaffing and fighting. Sometimes 
I received a small fee for delivering the 
bundle at the door of a lady, but this hap- 
pened rarely; it was not the custom, and sel- 
dom was I even thanked. I had only two 
memorable adventures on my travels; one 
was an attack on my breeches by a savage dog, 
and the other— shall I confess it— almost 
as disagreeable. A young and handsome wom- 
an, whom I had often seen in the store, and 
knew me, I imagine, better than I knew her, 
called me into the house with my package, set 
me on her knees, petted and kissed me, and 
asked me a lot of questions about one of the 
clerks. I have reason to believe her tender 
behavior was meant rather for her beloved 
clerk than for me. I reported nothing on my 
return, only, on being reproved for my long 
absence, I said, "Miss — had kept me," which 
made the clerk look sheepish. I was not sent 

194 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

to her house again. The clerks, however, did 
use me a good deal as an Innocent pander In 
their various Intrigues with the pretty and 
fast girls of the town. I carried notes, con- 
cealed In dry goods bundles, and brought back 
answers In my jacket pocket, which I was In- 
structed to deliver on the sly. 

The proprietor of the store to whom I was 
bound, and In whose family I lived, was a tall, 
thin, sallow-faced man. He had a nervous 
manner, but he was not unkind to me. He 
clothed and fed me well. He chewed tobac- 
co and was brimming over with funny stories, 
funny and usually indelicate. I heard much 
swearing, too, and I began to think It the 
proper thing to try to be wicked myself. I 
was greatly attached to the two clerks, and 
they were my models In everything. One of 
them was also the bookkeeper of the estab- 
lishment as well as a salesman. He dressed 
after the mode In trig, close-fitting suits; his 
pantaloons were like tights, and only kept on 
his legs by straps under his boots. He played 
and fooled with me In Idle hours. The other 
clerk was exceedingly sober, often melancholy, 
seldom smiled and had nothing to do with me, 
rarely speaking to me. I stood in awe and ad- 

195 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

miration of him. He wrote poetry for the lo- 
cal newspaper, and I think he felt above us 
all, and above his position. He belonged to 
a distinguished family, and why he happened 
to be a dry goods clerk I never knew. He 
seemed as much out of his natural place as I. 
How restless and penned up I felt at times 
no words can tell. The lean dog with free- 
dom, is much more to be envied than 
the chained dog with a golden collar. It was 
a small store of only three counters, and dur- 
ing unoccupied hours there was nothing on 
the shelves or in drawers with which I could 
amuse myself. In mere desperation for some- 
thing to occupy myself I counted spools of 
cotton and silk, unrolled and rolled again 
pieces of goods, and many a hot summer af- 
ternoon, when both the shops and the streets 
were deserted, I caught flies and put them in 
a bottle, and then smoked them to death. 

I now seldom saw my former playmates. 
Their families traded at a much larger and 
more fashionable store. Our customers were 
of an humbler class, mainly from the suburbs 
and adjoining villages. But a boy does not 
long remain companionless, be there another 
boy within reach. I became intimate first with 

196 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

a lad in a grocery store, whereby there was 
considerable access to sugar, raisins and oth- 
er sweets; through him, together with oth- 
ers in similar situations, I was made a member 
of their secret society, having been tested as 
to strength, reliability and other qualifica- 
tions. Our badge was a red morocco star, 
worn under the left lappet of the vest. The 
only purpose of the club that I could ever dis- 
cover, was to lick every boy who did not be- 
long to it! I was expected to celebrate my 
initiation by challenging three non-members, 
which I proceeded to do, licked two and met 
my match in the third. Then I was warned 
to attack only boys smaller than myself. The 
morals of the club were meant to be on a par 
with those of much older boys, but signally 
failed. We were as bad as we knew how to 
be; none of us had the courage or the enter- 
prise to do the naughty things which so ex- 
cited our emulation in our elders. However, 
we insulted and beat all the goody-good boys 
in our way, swore small oaths, smoked and 
swaggered until sick with nausea, and crown- 
ing achievement, learned what a Tom and 
Jerry tasted like, enticed merely by the name. 
It was not until we had Ike Bromley for a 

197 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

leader, that we fairly succeeded In being as 
bad as we wished. He had an instinct for 
mischief and deviltry, and a way with him 
that led captive the heart and devotion of all 
boys. Daring and cool, he could carry a 
sober, innocent face which would disarm a de- 
tective and charm a deacon. Whoever got 
caught or punished, he always escaped. No 
one could have guessed at this time that he 
would become one of the most brilliant journ- 
alists of his day, the wittiest and most en- 
gaging of men at a dinner table, a boon com- 
panion, and beloved friend. Money was very 
scarce with us ; what little we had we earned 
In various outside ways. In doing extra er- 
rands or selling old rubbers, old boots, copper 
and brass. In fact we were the scavengers 
of the town, and had the run of all the cel- 
lars. We managed to sneak or steal our way 
Into most of the shows that visited the town. 
For some reason, now quite Incomprehensible, 
the wharves were our most common rendez- 
vous. And for what object we spent our 
small funds on raw clams, eaten out of the 
shell, and doused with pepper sauce, (which, 
for my part, I could with the greatest diffi- 
culty swallow, bringing tears to my eyes, and 

198 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

burning in my throat for a week after) , I as 
little know, but now suppose It was In Imi- 
tation of the rough men and sailors about the 
piers with whom we consorted, and whom we 
wished to impress with our manliness. In- 
deed, with all the rough characters about the 
streets we made friends and aped their man- 
ners as much as we could, two or three no- 
toriously fast, rich young men being our par- 
ticular heroes. Nothing saved us from the 
realization of our ideals but our extreme 
youth and native Innocence, and perhaps some 
lurking sense that we were playing at vice, 
with fire that would not burn and water that 
would not drown. There was one thing we 
were ambitious to do, yet could not screw 
our courage to the sticking point; we wanted 
to get drunk to see how it felt. Either a 
Tom and Jerry had not sufficient potency, or 
we could never find the bottom of the glass 
before our stomachs rebelled, for we only paid 
the penalty in a penitential headache without 
the fun of the debauch. 

I realized all the while the peril of my 
ways In case they should come to light, which 
only served to increase the excitement, though 
now and then I had some serious moments. 

199 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

Several times I barely escaped discovery, and 
our pranks often defied punishment because 
of our number and the ease with which we 
could shoulder off the blame on one another. 
I now thought of the children of my sister's 
school, with whom I had recently been so inti- 
mate, with contempt as far beneath me in 
knowing how to have real sport. 

Although I continued to be the menial of 
the store, I had acquired some knowledge of 
the business; could snap a piece of broad- 
cloth to show its firm quality and nap, hang 
dress goods in proper folds over my arm to 
give an idea how they would look when made 
up, and talk quite glibly on the cheapness of 
our wares in comparison with those of our 
competitors. I could see that the small boy 
in a jacket, and only two heads higher than 
the counter, amused the men customers with 
his brag attempt at being a salesman, and that 
the women smiled down upon him approving- 
ly—all of which he took as a compliment to 
his success; for successful he often was, to 
the surprise of the older clerks. With what 
pride did I enter my sales on a slate kept for 
the purpose under the cash drawer. I sur- 
mised that the women sometimes bought 

200 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

goods just to encourage the boy. The 
clerks laughed and made fun of me tell- 
ing me it was my rosy cheeks that sold 
the goods. Young ladies frequented the 
shop for no other purpose than to chat 
and flirt with the clerks, and one I re- 
member always kissed me at any favorable 
chance. How I hated my red cheeks, and 
tried my best to rub out the color. It was 
a comfort to be told I should outgrow it, and 
then the girls would not care for me. For two 
long years I had ceased to care for them. It 
was even with some shame that I thought of 
my Launas, they, who later in life, have 
formed many an ideal of loveliness. 

It is said the child in the womb passes 
through all animal forms in its growth from 
the germ to birth. Whether any incipient 
wings have been observed I have not heard. 
In much the same way the boy represents in 
his growth the different stages of civilization 
from the savage to the civilized man. Some 
time the average boy typifies the Indian, the 
cowboy, prizefighter, pirate, sailor, soldier; 
and all classes of rough, wild men are wonder- 
fully attractive to him. He wishes to be like 
them and plays at being one of them. For 

20I 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

more than a year I was greatly attached to the 
ruffians on the wharves, and to such of the 
Montville Indians as I could make friends 
with. A wandering party of Indians from 
the Penobscot tribe had their tents pitched 
for a whole summer just outside the city, 
with whom I became intimate, and spent my 
leisure time with them. I made my er- 
rands go their way, however long the circuit. 
I should have gone away with them, would 
they have had me. To live in a tent and shoot 
with a bow became to me the ideal of life. 
Strange it is that the most vivid memory of 
that episode remaining with me is the pecu- 
liar smell of the Indians; but it was not then 
offensive to me. 

All these propensities were greatly stimu- 
lated by reading at this time the Wandering 
Jew of Eugene Sue. I had found the volume, 
a paper covered pamphlet edition, in a drawer 
in the store. I carried it home secretly and 
read it at night. After I was supposed to be 
in bed and asleep, and the house still, I used 
to get up, partly dress, light my lamp and 
read often until midnight or as long as the oil 
held out. I doubt if any one knows the su- 
preme pleasure and excitement of reading, 

202 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

who has not read a book surreptitiously. All 
the mysteries and horrors of the Wandering 
Jew entered into my soul, and while it opened 
a scene and actions utterly new to me, it sob- 
ered me far beyond anything that had ever 
happened to me. About the same time I had 
many gloomy days and nights of terror from 
having seen the bodies of twenty-five drowned 
passengers from the wreck of a steamboat 
which plied between Norwich and New York 
City. Our poet clerk took me with him to see 
them the morning they were brought to the 
dock on another steamboat of the same line. 
They were laid out in rows on the main deck, 
frozen stiff, for it was the winter season, cov- 
ered with sand and particles of ice, their flesh 
dreadfully lacerated and blue, their features 
contorted into ghastly shapes. Among them 
were two men whom we knew well, frequent- 
ers of our store. I clung to the hand of the 
clerk, and should have fainted, had he not 
taken me away immediately. He himself was 
overcome, and his sad face was sadder and 
longer for many days. The whole city was in 
gloom and mourning. A revival, which was 
in progress in one of the Baptist churches, 
added greatly to its converts in consequence of 

203 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

the accident, and the presence of death In such 
near and fearful form. 

PISTOL MAKER 

At length Fortune took a new turn at her 
wheel. Suddenly the store door closed be- 
hind me; broom, oil can, coal hod and 
scissors knew me no more. I rejoiced in 
my release and in the prospect of new scenes, 
new faces and pleasures. What was to be my 
occupation did not give me one thought; I 
had as yet no choice, no preference. Where- 
ever there were boys was my world and my 
trade. 

Two of my sister's influential patrons, who 
had been instrumental in bringing her to Nor- 
wich, removed their business to Worcester, 
Mass. She followed them, and, as usual, I 
followed her. The business of her patrons 
was the manufacture of pistols, a patented, 
six-barrelled, self-cocking revolver, the first 
of its kind, I believe, ever invented, and a 
wonder in its day. The whole six barrels 
revolved on a rod running through their cen- 
ter, and by one and the same ratchet move- 
ment the hammer was raised and the chambers 

204 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

of the barrel thrown Into position to receive 
the discharge from a percussion cap. There 
was a great demand for these pistols in the 
South and West. It was, I suppose, on ac- 
count of my sister's intimacy with the families 
of these manufacturers that a place was found 
for me in their works. 

See me now no longer in a linen shirt and 
brown broadcloth jacket, but again in blue 
jean overalls, with grimy, oily hands and 
dirty face, shut in walls from which was no 
escape for ten hours each day. The lathes, 
hand tools, forges and engine which oper- 
ated the machinery were novel and interesting 
to me at first. I was the only boy in the es- 
tablishment. The workmen, all skilled mechan- 
ics, were a remarkably fine body of men. They 
earned large wages, lived quite comfortably, 
and were prominent in their several circles and 
churches. One of them became Lieut. Gov. 
of Mass. I was placed under the charge of 
the foreman of the first floor where the heav- 
ier part of the material of the pistol was pre- 
pared. I did the odd jobs of the room, 
worked a punching machine and managed the 
lathe that turned the rough outside of the pis- 
tol barrel. My master took an active personal 

205 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

Interest in me and was very minute and pains- 
taking In his Instructions. He was a very pi- 
ous man and lost no opportunity of exhort- 
ing me to seek religion and become converted. 
It made no Impression on me; I understood 
no word he said. Besides, just the same words 
had always been familiar to me and had 
never conveyed any meaning to my simple 
ears. It did not trouble me to be called a sin- 
ner; It never occurred to me to question 
whether I was or not. In short In my Inno- 
cence and Indifference, I was a perfect type of 
the thing Itself, as understood by the church 
But when my master Invited me to go a-fish- 
Ing on some half holiday, that was a very dif- 
ferent sort of a text, which I well understood. 
Alas, when the fish did not bite. It gave an 
uncomfortable opportunity for a little exhor- 
tation. In addition to the work In the shop 
I spent much time In the office, where I was 
employed In putting the last touches to the 
pistols before being packed for delivery. I 
burnished the silver plates, set in the handles, 
cleaned and oiled the chambers, hammers and 
nipples, and polished the whole with fine 
chamois skin. Thus I had a hand In the be- 
ginning and completion of the construction of 

206 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

a pistol, and knew pretty well all the interme- 
diate operations. I also obtained an Inkling 
of the way the business was conducted by 
hearing the conversation and discussions of 
the proprietors. I heard many secrets. Some 
of them confused my small glimmerings of 
moral sense. It seemed to me that I had 
known the same sort of obliquities among boys 
In the swapping of jacknives. I heard the 
bookkeeper say one day, "business Is business ; 
this Is no Sunday school." I had bewildering 
thoughts. Was it possible these pistols were 
not what they seemed and would not kill a 
man? For I knew they were sold mostly In 
the South for the fighting of duels. I longed 
to try one on a cat. The sun rose and set on 
my suspicions, with never a solution. To this 
day I cannot rid myself of an Innate doubt 
when I make a purchase. I expect to be cheat- 
ed. 

I seemed In a fair way at last of acquiring 
a trade, and it might have been, except 
for the accident of my boarding place. 
For there I first came In contact with books 
and students. It was not a regular boarding 
house, save for three months in the winter. I 
was taken Into the family on account of its 

207 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

association with mine long before In Belllng- 
ham. The master of the house had formerly 
been the clergyman of that town, but was now 
a botanic-eclectic physlcan and general med- 
ical professor of a school, which held one 
winter session In his house. It was attended by 
only a dozen students. Lobelia was Prof. — 's 
strong point. Everybody In the house was 
put through a course of lobelia with a heavy 
sweat, sometimes to cure a slight indisposi- 
tion, but more often as an experiment. My 
only escape from the drudgery of the work- 
shop was in feigning sickness and undergoing 
the Professor's panacea. This confined me 
to the bed for a day and gave me another 
day for recovery, when I could be about and 
enjoy myself. These sweatings and retchings 
took the color out of my cheeks so that when 
I returned to the shop it was easily believed 
that I had been 111, and, with considerable 
sympathy, my master also warned me of the 
brevity and uncertainty of life and the neces- 
sity of preparing for the day of wrath. Lit- 
tle did he know how all this could be escaped 
by a good dose of lobelia. 

It was a curious life I led at this time be- 
tween my regular occupation, lobelia, the dls- 

208 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

secting room of the professor and frequent 
religious exhortations. I was immensely de- 
lighted by the secrets of the basement cellar, 
where, in winter, the cadavers were kept. I 
became acustomed to the sight of them, and 
frequently inspected them when alone, curi- 
ous to see the internal structure of a human 
body, for until that time I was not con- 
scious of any internal structure of the hu- 
man body. Hands and feet were the epi- 
tome of my physiology. The whole business 
of dissection was conducted in the most clan- 
destine manner, although the subjects were ob- 
tained from Boston and were, no doubt, hon- 
estly procured. There was probably some pro- 
fessional reason for their being all women. I 
know not why, but I seemed to be trusted by 
the Professor and his little band of students, 
and when cadavers arrived at the railroad 
station by express, I was often sent to watch 
them until they could be removed. They came 
in large casks packed in oats. 

I had little time to make acquaintance with 
boys, as I was not allowed on the street in 
the evening, and Sunday was strictly observed. 
Nor did I know any girls of my own age. 
With the pretty waitress of the Professor's 

209 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

dining-room, some years older than myself, I 
had occasional ardent encounters on back 
stairs and in dark entries. I was less em- 
barrassed by them than formerly and began 
to play the beau. As usual, only girls much 
older than myself attracted me. I began to 
have the same experience with regard to men. 
There were even some moments when I dim- 
ly realized why some men were respected and 
honored. For the proprietors of the pistol 
factory I had a deep reverence. One of them, 
the inventor of the self-cocking pistol, was 
the model of a reserved, dignified gentleman. 
I saw much of him in the office attending to 
his business, deciding and despatching it with 
few words. The other member of the firm 
was in complete contrast to his partner. His 
round, jolly face was always wreathed in 
smiles, a joke, a pun, or story always forth- 
coming, and business the last thing to be con- 
sidered. Hewas a college graduate and a poet 
of local reputation. It is singular in my boy- 
hood how often I happened to be dropped in 
the vicinity of small poets. This gentleman 
was, like myself, a native of Bellingham, and 
on that account he sometimes noticed me and 
made inquiries after my well-being. He 

210 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

seemed to me a very great man, chiefly be- 
cause he wrote poetry and had it printed in 
books. I imagine that he expected me to re- 
main a mechanic, and had little thought of the 
influence he was unconsciously exerting over 
the future. Nor did I myself recognize it, un- 
til years later when my first article appeared 
in a magazine; feeling some pride in this 
grand, world-moving effort, I sent it to him as 
a lawful tribute. Time had not been kind to 
him; he had almost lost the use of his hand 
for writing and was using some sort of me- 
chanical contrivance for that purpose. But 
the fire of the proselyter still burned in him, 
and he ended his note of acknowledgment 
with the old familiar query about the salva-r 
tion of my soul. 

THE AWAKENING 

Having no boy associates I began to cul- 
tivate the Professor's students. I spent my 
leisure time with them, and, through their 
conversation, entered a new world. Words 
are too cold a medium to convey the 
change that came over me, for at the 
same time that I began in some measure to 

211 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

appreciate the learning and general knowl- 
edge of these young men I began to be con- 
scious of my own Ignorance, I became aware 
that I knew nothing, never had, and probably 
never should. Consequently I was more de- 
pressed than stimulated. I reflected on the 
conversations I heard among the students, and 
the pithy, sententious sayings of the Profes- 
sor at the table. He usually settled all dis- 
cussions and table talk with a witticism or apt 
quotation, I was about to say with a tooth- 
pick; for he had a curious habit of digging 
his thumb and finger Into his vest pocket and 
fumbling for one, jabbing It into one side of 
his mouth and delivering his wisdom from the 
other side. His wife who sat opposite to him, 
tall, lean and prim always frowned on any lev- 
ity at the table. It was her opinion that we 
should eat our food In silence and as quickly 
as possible, so that, as she often remarked, 
the table could be cleared and the kitchen 
work not be delayed. To her great dis- 
tress the conversation often became so 
lively that the meal dragged, and vari- 
ous were her devices for bringing back 
our attention to the business at hand. 
I had some sense of the humor of the 

212 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

situation, and as I never took part in the talk, 
I amused myself by exchanging winks with 
the pretty waitress. She was the only person 
in the house near my own age. We were very 
good friends; she cut me a little larger piece 
of pie than she served to the others, darned 
my socks and called me "Sonny," and "curly 
head." She was not averse to an arm around 
her waist, and I repaid her kindness in the 
only currency I had — a kiss. However, I more 
enjoyed the society of the students than I did 
hers. I could be in their company without 
being noticed. No word escaped me and slow- 
ly, then, at length, overwhelmingly, there was 
borne in upon me the crushing sense of the 
difference between these young men and my- 
self, their interests, expectations, future ca- 
reers and mine. Yet I saw no way out of my 
present situation. The bitter seeds of unrest, 
and ambitions without opportunities, were at 
the same time planted in a fruitful soil. When 
the soul of man is awakened, not one but all 
its faculties awaken together. Hitherto the 
memory of my past life had no existence 
and no interest. It was a blank page. 

All at once, when most cast down and dis- 
couraged in my thought of the future, that 

213 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

blank page of the past became Illuminated and 
full of delightful pictures and memories. I 
was entirely overcome by them. They all 
pointed back to Bellingham, which I had not 
thought of since leaving it. The attraction 
to the place became irresistible. It seemed 
as if there I could recover myself and begin 
my life over again, continuing all its joys, re- 
uniting all its companionships. It is obvious 
to me now that this was an evasive yet 
ingenuous effort to escape from myself, an 
awakening that had come to me, which I knew 
not how to meet. I revolved several plans 
for getting back to my native place and be- 
coming a farmer. None of these were prac- 
ticable, and I determined to go, trusting to 
chance to make the way plain. But even the 
going had difficulties. I solved them by set- 
ting out. I crossed the bridge before I came 
to it, and all the way was easy. I could take no 
scrip for the journey, for I had none; neith- 
er two coats, for I had but one ; nor yet could 
I take the blessing of any one, for to no one 
save the waitress did I entrust my intentions. 
I set out on foot, and once on the road, I felt 
as free and joyous as a bird. There were 
twenty-five miles to cover, and I expected to 

214 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

do them from sun to sun of a late April day. 
Sometimes I ran for a mile or two from sheer 
eagerness to arrive. Most of the way I 
sauntered along thinking of nothing, over- 
flowing with animal spirits. Enough the free- 
dom, the open sky, the earth, which had 
been lost to me for three years. It did not 
occur to me that I was running away, not 
from, outward conditions, but from myself; 
that at last I had come to the not unusual 
crisis in the life of boys. However, it was a 
very mild form of runaway, twenty-five miles, 
and its objective my old home; not the lure of 
the sea nor the army, nor yet the adventures 
of the dime novel hidden in the hay mow. 
No, it was none of these, but strangely in con- 
trast to them, an impulsive, passionate awak- 
ening of memory, an attempted escape from a 
future, which had been shown to me as in a 
vision, and from which I shrank in fear and 
despair. 

At noon I was half way between Grafton 
and Upton and I rested on a high bank with 
my back' against a stone wall. There I could 
see the church spires of Milford town, and 
beyond, the land fell away toward Belling- 
ham. I ate some food that the waitress 

215 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

had given me for the journey, and took 
the road again. Soon I was in Milford. 
The remainder of the way was very 
famihar. I knew every house, rock and 
tree; yet everything looked smaller than 
I anticipated. I hurried on as I wished to 
arrive at Uncle Lyman's before his supper 
time, which I knew was invariably at five 
o'clock the year round. Uncle Lyman's house, 
to which I was going, was the house in which 
I was born. He had been my father's most 
intimate friend. The house had always been 
like a home to me, even after my family had 
one of their own. As I hurried along I saw 
again the house, one-storied, and the elm tree, 
with its branches extending over the 
roof, and arching the highway. I suddenly re- 
membered the flat stone that had been set in 
its bole for a seat, which the tree had so over- 
grown that, as a child, I could sit there and be 
almost hidden from sight; and the brook 
which flowed through the fields near the 
house, where the grass was always a darker 
green along its course, even when it dried 
up ; and the windings so many and sharp that 
they seemed to write letters when one looked 
down upon them from a little elevation. I 

216 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

have sat In a tree and fancied I spelled out 
words In the green grass. 

As I came nearer the house I became more 
and more agitated about the welcome that 
awaited me. It was friendly, yet surprised, 
and not as warm as I had expected. Had they 
changed? Or was It I? Certainly I did not 
feel at home. This was the house most dear 
to me, this the settle where I had sat when my 
legs did not reach the floor. How familiar 
sounded the voices I now heard, one deep and 
penetrating, the other a thin falsetto; yet I 
did not feel the comfort I had Imagined that 
I should. At the table were the same dishes 
I remembered; the taste was gone. After 
supper I went out and tried to sit In my old 
seat In the elm. It was too small for me now ; 
alas, it seemed to disown me, to have cast me 
out. The barn which once looked so enor- 
mous appeared insignificant. I went to bed 
unreconciled and unhappy. Yet how can a 
healthy boy awake In the morning dejected? 
Night, pitying night, which knows how the 
evil days succeed each other, hinders their sad 
return and hides In her oblivious mantle their 
weariness, their sorrows and their disappoint- 
ments. I was awake at dawn, and yesterday 

217 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

was forgotten. The sun shone across the tops 
of the forest oaks just beginning to show their 
red buds. There was dew on the grass and a 
sweet, earthy smell in the air. Robins were 
calling everywhere and blue birds flying low 
from fence to fence. The little brook was 
full to the brim; the lush grass laid flat along 
its borders. I found the places where I used 
to erect my miniature mill wheels, and the re- 
mains of the little dam. Here was already 
antiquity. I did not need Egypt or Greece. 
Childhood contains their whole story. The 
season was unusually early; the great elm was 
becoming misty with the ruflled edges of its 
unfolding leaves. The outermost sprays be- 
gan to drop from increasing weight of sap and 
leaf bud. Catkins hung on birch and willow 
and alder and the ancient bed of tansy had a 
new growth of three inches. Down the hill 
toward Beaver Pond, and along the meadow 
clusters of ferns were leading up their brides 
and bridegrooms in opposite pairs with bowed 
heads. It was twenty days before the usual 
pasturing time; but Uncle Lyman was turn- 
ing his cattle out for half a day to keep the 
grass from becoming too rank and sour. I 
helped him drive the cows, oxen and heifers 

218 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

to the pasture. How they gamboled, kicked 
up their heels and tossed their heads. No 
more bow and stanchion, no more dry hay and 
confinement for them. I shared In their ex- 
hilaration, having been myself a prisoner for 
the past six months, and as we drove them 
afield, could hardly keep from dancing and 
shouting. "There, my son," said Uncle Ly- 
man, "let me see If you have forgotten how to 
put up the bars." 

I lifted them Into place with a will, and 
thought, this is the life for me. Emboldened 
by his question I opened my mind In a round- 
about way as to helping him all summer on 
the farm. He saw my drift at once and told 
me he could not hire me, nor any other boy; 
he must have a man If anybody, and that I 
must stick to my trade. 

"You can stay a few days," he continued, 
"and then you had better go back to It," and 
as If to soften his advice he added, "The first 
cloudy day we will try for pickerel, though 
It Is rather too early." 

This might have been discouraging and a 
dreadful check to my plans, but by some sud- 
den transition wholly inexplicable, I had al- 
ready half given them up. My discontent and 

219 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

melancholy had been exhausted In the running 
away; and a few hours experience of disen- 
chantment reconciled me to my lot. 

There Is no human experience more acute- 
ly painful than when one awakens to the fact 
that he Is a person, an ego, unrelated to peo- 
ple or things, with no real claim to assert save 
that of habit or associations. The sense of Iso- 
lation and loneliness Is at first overpowering, 
and vainly does he try to attach himself to 
former objects and environment. The awak- 
ening may come In mature years, It may come 
In youth ; but at what time It appears, the old 
heavens and the old earth crumble and the 
soul faces Its own destiny and recognizes that 
It must walk alone. 

I was surprised to see how the face of 
things had altered, when, In the course of the 
day, I hunted up the two playmates with 
whom I had formerly been most Intimate. I 
met a cold reception. We could not find our 
way back to the old ground, the old Innocent 
relation. As for Launa Probana, I did not so 
much as Inquire for her. Time and change 
had not yet made her distinct and dear. Af- 
ter this I enjoyed myself very well for a few 
days, excusing my prank with the notion that 

220 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

it was a vacation. We went fishing, but the 
pickerel would not come from their hiding 
places. In the evenings Uncle Lyman and his 
wife at their several sides of the fireplace, 
she with her knitting, and he with his 
pipe, and I in a corner of the settle, 
talked of the days when my father was alive, 
and of the labors they underwent to make a 
good farm, clearing the brush and stones 
and building the fences. They told me of 
my birth and my father's joy at having a son. 
Then when I inquired for Nahum, their son, 
whom I remembered as a young man, when I 
was a child, a sudden silence fell over the 
great kitchen. There was no reply and the 
mother's head drooped over her work and 
tears fell upon it. I wondered, but did not 
dare to speak, and shortly I climbed the at- 
tic stairs to my bed. The next day Uncle Ly- 
man cautioned me not to mention Nahum 
again before his wife. He said he had run 
away, and they knew not where he was. A 
guilty pang struck my heart; I became con- 
scious of what I had done, and thought per- 
haps at that very moment my sister might be 
weeping for me. 

Nothing was now wanting to complete the 

221 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

failure of my escapade, and I was as eager to 
run back as I had been to run away. Memor- 
ies, touched by imagination, had come to 
naught in contact with reality. I learned my 
first lesson in keeping it and ideals in their 
proper place. A bird in the bush is worth two 
in the hand ! Utopia is a far country, toward 
which to travel is better than to arrive. It 
was some years before I restored the Belling- 
ham of my imagination. If experience be noth- 
ing but suffering then I had experienced; over 
this transaction therefore I grant an act of 
oblivion. 

The return to Worcester was tedious. 1 
was in no hurry, dreading my reception; what 
should I say, what should I answer? I re- 
volved many explanations, but each I could 
think of contained a falsehood. With all my 
waywardness I was never a good liar; the lie 
was manifest in my face and I could feel it 
there as something not myself. I concluded 
to say nothing and not attempt any apology. 
This proved the wiser plan. Few questions 
were asked; reproachful looks were to be 
expected. Some penalty I paid in the shop 
also; harder tasks were set for me and I was 
kept more strictly to my work. The students 

222 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

of Prof. Lobelia were now gone, the sessions 
of his medical school closing in April, and the 
house seemed lonesome. In the course of the 
summer there came into the family a young 
man who was preparing himself to be a mis- 
sionary. For the first time I heard of Greek 
and Latin books. The young man was study- 
ing both ; it excited my curiosity. Here were 
other things of which I knew nothing, and I 
began at this period to be oppressed continu- 
ally by the more and more frequent discovery 
of the extent of my ignorance. Luckily I knew 
how to read. My rustic mentors had warned 
me against girls, but never of books. I found 
in the Professor's library a queer assortment 
of odds and ends of learned works. There 
was a shelf of theology and missionary rec- 
ords, doubtless collected when he was a min- 
ister; many shelves of medical books, and a 
small number of miscellaneous works, his- 
tories and cyclopaedias. Among these latter 
I chanced one day to take down Whelpley's 
Compend of History. All that I can remem- 
ber of it now are its stories of ancient he- 
roes, Alexander, Caesar, the greater and less- 
er men of Greek and Roman annals. That 
of Alexander made the deepest impression 

223 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

upon me; I know not why, perhaps his con- 
quests, his glory, his youth. I scarcely knew 
before what the word hero meant. It was a 
mark of utter inexperience and a visionary 
temperament that my ambition should have 
been so aroused by the career of an ancient 
hero instead of the man who had invented a 
self-cocking pistol. It was to be two thousand 
years behind the times, in an age when half a 
generation is sufficient to write you down as 
belated and not wanted. However, it is well 
to have a hero in youth, an example, a spur, 
a Bucephalus, although one gets many a fall 
before he reaches the goal, and I can date my 
desire to know more and to achieve something 
from the reading of that brief compend of 
ancient history. 

If ever a man finds a path to the true life, 
he experiences two awakenings, the intellectu- 
al and the spiritual, and it matters little which 
is first. In Worcester I stumbled upon the 
two books in the space of three years, which 
led me from darkness to day. The first was 
that I have just described; the other was of 
somewhat the same character, Emerson's 
Representative Men. 

The beech at last divides the rock in whose 

224 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

invisible seam its tiny seed was sown. I now 
began to spend all my leisure time in reading, 
and to be more and more aware of my un- 
profitable and aimless life. Books carried 
me this way and that. I was wholly overcome 
by them as by a strong personal influence, 
especially when I read Byron. The student 
whom I have mentioned had a few books of 
poetry, and among them the complete works 
of Byron in one thick volume bound in calf, 
and printed on cheap, thin paper. He him- 
self had written verses before his conversion. 
He now looked upon his poets as witnesses 
of his former sinful state. He wanted to 
sell them to me with all their sins, and event- 
ually I did buy his copy of Byron for 
fifty cents, after borrowing and becoming 
so enamoured of it that I felt I could 
not live without the book. The By- 
ronic moods and fashion I imitated to the best 
of my ability. I began to turn down my Sun- 
day linen collar which had stood up to my 
ears, and to wear my hair long and careless; 
whereas formerly, I had brushed it back and 
upward as straight as possible, after the man- 
ner of ministers and schoolmasters, now I let 
it hang as it would over my forehead and 

225 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

neck. Melancholy was the wear, and for this, 
in my present temper, not much effort was 
required. I did not, as Alexander and Chry- 
sostom had done, put my favorite author un- 
der my pillow; but often having to sleep on 
the floor, this volume of Byron served as my 
pillow. In turn one book after another held 
me like a captive lover, and I endeavored to 
conform my life to what I read, no sooner 
enthralled by one than I found another more 
enchanting. I formed a taste for reading that 
has lasted all my life, in which, if there be 
any education, any mental discipline, is the 
only consistent part of my development. Our 
critics and literary mentors extol such books 
as are fit to be read a second time. I have a 
still better reason for a second reading, be- 
cause I forget the first. When I strictly ex- 
amine myself I cannot say that the contents 
of any book remain long with me, not even 
the Greek and Latin grammars over which 
I spent years of terrible toil. Somewhat sur- 
vives the years, vague, inexact and never at 
hand when wanted. Enough for me that I 
know pretty well where to find what I have 
once read. I have been drawn to the authors, 
who have written especially for me, by a cer- 

226 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

tain, recurrent impulse and appetite. Then I 
can go to the shelf in the dark. I find that 
memory is a faculty over which we cannot use 
the whip and spur to much purpose. It goes 
its own gait through barren or fertile fields, 
gathering many a weed with its flowers. How 
many trifles one carries through life from 
childhood days, by no effort of his own, things 
of the senses mostly, when these were unwrit- 
ten tablets and blank for the first impressions. 
Upon these tablets are indelibly retained a cer- 
tain box, a spool, a pair of stairs, the smell of 
a neighbor's house, when, with all my efforts, 
I cannot recover my father's voice and count- 
enance, nor many another thing that would 
make a golden treasury of memory. Instead, 
it Is more like the lumber of an old attic, or 
the contents of a boy's pocket. From much 
reading I began to observe the difference be- 
tween written and spoken languages, and to 
single out the people who used the best speech 
In their common conversation. I tried my- 
self to talk like the books I read. Never be- 
fore had I noticed any difference between men 
as to education. All were on the same plane, 
only separable by some personal relation to 
myself. Little by little they became distinct 

227 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

so that I attempted to classify them In a crude 
and bookish way. Character and the moral 
point of view, with their manifold applica- 
tions to life, were as yet hidden from me. I 
judged men and women by their speech, even 
by their pronunciation, and thought that 1 
could detect the accent of the educated. In 
short, education became all In all to my 
mind; the one desirable possession, and 
Its end the writing of books. Its reward 
fame. As was natural I tried to write, 
but my rude penmanship, my Inability to 
spell the words, which I was ambitious 
to use, the difficulty of beginning a sen- 
tence, and still greater perplexity of end- 
ing It, completely disgusted me and filled me 
with despair. It was more evident than ever 
that education was the ladder for my enter- 
prise. There was, at that time. In Worcester a 
learned blacksmith, who knew fifty languages; 
he might have been an example to me; 
yet I had never heard of him. I knew only 
the great men of Whelpley's ancient history, 
and the poet Byron. Schools and colleges 
assumed great and greater Importance. I saw 
no way of educating myself: I expected It to 
be done for me, as everything thus far had 

228 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

been. I was nearly sixteen years old, bare- 
ly able to read and write, but no more ad- 
vanced than the average boy of ten or twelve. 

STUDENT LIFE 

After much solicitation I persuaded my 
sister to send me for one term to the Wor- 
cester Academy. This was a school then 
In the suburbs of the city under the 
patronage of the Baptists. It had for- 
merly been a manual labor school; that Is, 
students could pay their expenses by labor on 
a farm belonging to the Institution. This fea- 
ture had been given up, and It was conducted 
like other Institutions of a similar character. 
It was essentially a country academy. Intended 
primarily for youths who, having gone 
through the common schools, desired some 
further education at small expense. One or 
two terms were considered sufficient to round 
off the culture of farmers' sons. The school 
pretended to teach Latin and Greek, and oc- 
casionally sent a student to college. A few, 
having acquired a taste for study, remained 
long enough to fit themselves to become teach- 
ers of common schools, or to enter one of the 

229 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

professions, which at that time did not place so 
much importance as at present upon lengthy, 
preparation and a degree. The expenses 
were as light as was the fare. The 
rooms were scantily furnished; chairs, tables 
and beds were in the last stages of dilapida- 
tion from the rough usage of a generation of 
students. No one felt or was held responsible 
for their condition. Some of the students 
boarded themselves in the dormitory, which 
did not add to the tidiness and order of their 
rooms. Books, clothing, plates and pots, 
wood and food were scattered about 
promiscuously. Each room was a citadel, 
neither teachers nor steward ever en- 
tered it; a servant made up the bed, 
and that was the extent of her function. We 
filled our own water pails, cut our own wood 
and swept the room when we happened to 
think of it, and could borrow a broom. As 
I have said, the common table was meagerly 
kept. How could it have been otherwise at 
the rate of one dollar per week? We often 
rose in rebellion at the cooking, when we 
drove the waitress from the room, hurling the 
food, and after it, the dishes, upon the floor. 
No punishments ever followed these out- 

230 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

breaks, nor any of our pranks with the bell, 
the steward's horse and cow and the princi- 
pal's desk. The discipline was mild; or rath- 
er there was none. And yet there were many 
diligent students and a few who distinguished 
themselves In later life. The best features of 
the Institution were its unbounded freedom, 
the close democratic companionship of the stu- 
dents, the affectionate attachments formed, 
and the tremendous interest we took In the 
meetings of the Phllomathean society for de- 
bates, and the reading of essays and poetry, 
exhibited also in a lesser degree In the Satur- 
day declamations and compositions. How 
deep and real were our personal attachments I 
may Illustrate in mentioning that I have main- 
tained two of them for fifty years. Others 
that faded out of my life I still remember with 
grateful and tender feelings, especially a 
young man considerably older than myself, to 
whom I was passionately devoted. He was a 
handsome, reserved fellow with the eyes and 
lips of genius. He played the violin, and 
well do I recall the sensitive twitchlngs of his 
mouth at any strain of unusual thrilling sweet- 
ness. It made my heart beat faster when he 
spoke to me, which was rarely; and never be- 

231 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

fore had I felt such a deep emotion as when 
coming from the city one evening he asked 
me to take his arm. It was the common cus- 
tom with all of us when walking or strolling 
about the grounds to lock arms or put them 
about each other's necks. Only with him, the 
violinist, It was less usual than with the oth- 
ers. How often have I wondered what was 
the subsequent career of him whom we 
thought the greatest man among us. 

With such freedom, such slight discipline, 
and so little pressure In the classroom. It was 
nevertheless the best arena for the develop- 
ment of the whole man which I have ever 
known. Our debates were exciting, often 
fierce; sometimes we almost came to blows, 
and Instead of being merely practice and fo- 
renslcs,they were very real and vital, so much 
so, that we generally resumed them when two 
or three met In their rooms or on their walks. 
They were sure to continue until the next meet- 
ing, when a new question would be proposed. 
Usually the topics for debate and the princi- 
pal disputants were selected a week In ad- 
vance. Much time was given to preparation, 
to the complete neglect of our studies. The 
debates were extemporaneous, and after the 

232 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

preliminary speeches, the question was open 
to all. The topics of debate were generally 
on the social and political issues of the time; 
anti-slavery, temperance, women's rights; 
these questions often led into religious and 
theological controversies. Not who was the 
better scholar, but who was the better speak- 
er, and next the better writer, was the popular 
estimate of reputation and settlement of rank 
in school. We strove above everything to be 
eloquent, to become orators ; that being at the 
time the aim set before us by ambitious pub- 
lic men, inspired by the examples of Webster, 
Clay, Calhoun and others. It is my belief 
that, at this period, one of the great public 
prizes of glory, which young students set be- 
fore themselves, was to deliver a Fourth of 
July oration. Meanwhile no instruction was 
given in elocution, rhetoric or composi- 
tion. The required exercises in decla- 
mation and writing were conducted with 
almost no criticism. They neither added 
nor subtracted from our standing with 
the teachers by any sign known to us. 
We were left to our own self-instruction, 
which, on account of our enthusiasm, emula- 
tion and rivalries, was the very best of school- 

233 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

masters. We studied parliamentary law from 
a little volume called Cushlng's manual; for 
who could tell when he might be called upon 
to be an officer of the club, or at what point 
he could with safety move the previous ques- 
tion? Very amusing were some of the at- 
tempts of the students to speak extemporane- 
ously; the stammering, the hesitation, the 
confusion and final flunk; the confidence with 
which some one would spring to his feet, as 
If full to the muzzle, and the entire Inconse- 
quence and futility of his words, ending in ap- 
parent abject paralysis of speech. We dealt 
liberally In jeers at any exhibition of bathos 
or fustian; in laughter and applause at any 
touch of eloquence or wit. What better train- 
ing was there than this? I have always had 
a fond lingering desire to be an orator, but 
when before an audience found myself as cold 
as a clod. Toward essay writing and reading 
our attitude was somewhat different. Yet here 
we looked for and were only satisfied with 
eloquence— good, resounding periods with 
plentiful classical allusion and quotations of 
poetry. We always expected at least one apos- 
trophe to "Science Hill," which was the con- 
secrated name of the eminence on which the 

234 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

academy building stood. Progress, liberty, 
the Fathers of the Republic and other patri- 
otic themes were those on which we sharpened 
our pens. For purely literary subjects there 
was no Interest whatever; and, because of this 
indifference, occurred what was, to me, one of 
the most mortifying episodes of my youth. I 
had come into the possession of Milton's 
poetry, and though untouched by his Para- 
dise Lost, his Lycldas was a revelation to me 
of the music and rhythm and allusions possible 
to poetry. I committed It to memory and 
startled my class one day by reciting it as a 
part of the regular exercises. It was custom- 
ary for some criticism to follow such exer- 
cises; but, to my distress, my beautiful poem, 
that had filled me with delight, was received 
In absolute silence. It had fallen like a bolt 
from heaven on those young wights. Cov- 
ered with confusion, I went to my seat feeling 
that I had committed the unpardonable sin of 
attempting to do something beyond my ca- 
pacity. No comment on my effort was made 
at the time; I was not even rallied about it 
outside the class room; and only after fifty 
years had passed did I learn the reason of the 
extraordinary silence that had followed my 

235 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

rhetorical outbreak. Said one of my class- 
mates at a reunion, "I shall never forget the 
day you recited Lycidas ; none of the fellows 
had ever done such a thing; they neither knew 
nor cared for poetry, and your recitation was 
a revelation to us all. It came like a shock 
and thrilled us to bigger things. We never 
forgot it." 

So impressionable and plastic is youth in its 
formative period that it only takes one great 
poem to unlock for it the higher mysteries. 

We taught ourselves patriotism in season, 
and before the days of attenuated and hyper- 
sensitive politics. Rough fellows were we, 
dressed in cheap coats, eating coarse food, 
sleeping on hard beds in cold rooms, and I 
fear the well was not much called upon for 
baths. We read but little. There was not 
a newspaper nor magazine taken in the whole 
establishment, and how we knew what was go- 
ing on in the world I cannot tell ; yet in some 
way it penetrated our seclusion. In such a 
small and socially affiliated school, what one 
knew, all the others soon imbibed. We were 
every one of us Yankee boys, acquisitive and 
resolved to make the most of ourselves and 
our small opportunities. The library of the 

236 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

institution contained about a hundred volumes, 
and of these some were religious books. There 
was a ragged, greasy Shakespeare in eight 
volumes which I tried to read through, but 
found the task too much for me. However, I 
did have a glimpse of something for which I 
found myself unprepared; and such is the con- 
stitution of my mind, that I have seldom been 
able to grasp dramatic writing with complete 
enjoyment; I am apt to dwell too long on its 
beauty spots. For this reason I prefer the 
Greek drama, because of the simplicity of its 
construction. The characters are fewer, and, 
I may say, not so personal, and there are not 
so many threads to keep in hand. I am in no 
perplexity when I begin Agamemnon and An- 
tigone; there is a clear, simple and straight 
path for action. The one book which we all 
read with greatest diligence was Todd's Stu- 
dent's Manual. As we did not really study 
much, it seemed best to know all about the 
methods and rules for study. The book was 
stuffed full of sound advice In regard to the 
regulations of the student's time, diet, sleep 
and exercise; in short, what may, without 
offense, be called the mechanical apparatus for 
the acquirement of education and character. 

237 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

I am sure I profited much from this manual, 
although I could never observe a tithe of its 
instructions. It was something to know there 
was a path especially laid out for the student, 
if he could not always keep it. It prompted 
the searching of one's self, and in consequence, 
many of us began to keep a diary, which, I 
think in my own case, stimulated observation 
and reflection. Feeble as the young child's 
first effort to walk were my entries in my first 
diary. How is one to write without a definite 
subject, or one selected for him? But with 
each day's practice it became easier, and at 
last a pleasure to hold a silent intercourse with 
myself, to recover and merely to catalogue the 
day's doings and try to discriminate them. In 
vain thus far were my attempts at logic in the 
debating club, and the sentences in my diary 
seemed even more wanting In connection. Con- 
junctions would not join, nor any therefores 
and wherefores tie the sentences. It was mere- 
ly chance that I landed a verb In the right 
place, and did not altogether lose the noun. I 
seemed to know what I wanted to say but it 
would not form itself on the pen, and what 
I wrote one day I had an infinite disrelish for 
the next. I have heard something in my time 

238 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

about rising upon our dead selves. I know of 
nothing so dead and so precipitating as the 
look Into an early youthful diary. Not much 
more encouraging is the book one has written 
and published, and some time after has the 
temerity to open. 

SCHOOLMASTER 

After a few terms at Worcester Academy, 
during which I contrived in different ways to 
support myself on a single meal a day, at 
one time by ringing the bell for morning 
prayers and sweeping the general recita- 
tion room, at another by delivering a 
daily newspaper, the Worcester Spy, to 
one hundred and twenty-five subscribers, I 
thought myself competent to teach a common 
school, by which I hoped to earn enough to 
carry me through another year of study. I 
was examined as to my qualifications for teach- 
ing by the chairman of the school commit- 
tee of the town of Grafton, having applied 
for one of the district schools. Between fright 
and incompetency I passed a most inadequate 
examination. What little I did know de- 
serted me at the pinch. The reverend gen- 

239 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

tleman, who conducted me through questions 
in the various common school studies, was one 
of the most amiable souls in the world, as I 
had many subsequent opportunities of know- 
ing, for he continued my friend as long as he 
lived. He told me frankly that he was hard- 
ly waranted in giving me a certificate, but 
would allow me to make a trial of the school, 
and, as my sister had such a high reputation 
as a teacher, he had no doubt I would succeed 
if I was in earnest and studied diligently. The 
school consisted of fifty pupils of all ages; 
some were just learning to read, others had 
been through again and again all the text 
books in use and went to school in winter for 
fun, and because they had nothing else to do. 
There were six young men four years older 
than myself. These older pupils thought they 
knew their school books well enough, and had 
no occasion to study them again. They were 
much inclined to match their proficiency with 
that of their teacher, which was a good way 
of putting him on his mettle. A few ap- 
peared to be present only to make trouble, and 
to try their pugilism against that of the mas- 
ter. I was not especially athletic; yet, when 
my temper was up, I was a dangerous antag- 

240 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

onist. I soon discovered the work cut out for 
me. I spent every evening In preparation for 
the next day's lessons, and I Introduced some 
new exercises for those older boys and girls 
whose familiarity with their books gave them 
little to do. My troubles began soon enough, 
not In the school, but among the parents, 
which was shortly reflected In their children. 
In every New England school district there 
are generally factions and parties as In larger 
political divisions; It divides on all kinds of 
Issues, political, religious or social. I am giving 
my experience, not for Its personal value, but as 
the average picture of the average school dis- 
trict. This particular district was sharply split 
by the temperance partyand the rummies. It so 
happened that the prudential committeeman, 
as he was called, that Is, the agent whose of- 
fice it was to hire a teacher and have the gen- 
eral care of all the business concerns of the 
school for the year, was an ardent temper- 
ance worker, and I boarded with him. This 
was reason enough for the other party to stir 
up antagonism against the teacher. It was not 
long before I became aware of the situation, 
and learned to my surprise and amusement 
that I was a strong temperance man, and in 

241 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

the habit of making temperance speeches. The 
rummies, I found, were men addicted only to 
their cider barrels; hard working citizens 
with red faces and rather lurid speech. On 
the whole, I thought them much more inter- 
esting characters than the faction to which I 
was supposed to belong. But they would have 
none of me, and I had not sufficient tact to 
win them to myself. The crisis came when I 
thrashed the son of one of them, my first 
and last experiment in corporal punishment. 
The boy's father threatened and sent me word 
that the first time he met me I might look out 
for his horse whip. I fully expected it, and 
carried a stick on my way to and from school. 
He turned out to be a great coward, for one 
day we met on the road and he slunk the oth- 
er side of his load of wood as we came op- 
posite each other. He took his boy out of 
school, and several others followed him, com- 
plaining that I did not know enough arithme- 
tic to teach them, which was quite true, only 
I was learning; and gladly would I learn and 
gladly teach, if they could have had patience. 
I think my most successful teaching has been 
with those with whom I was also studying 
and learning, having a double incitement and 

242 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

interest. The teacher who knows it all before- 
hand, and rests in his knowledge is soon 
dulled and wearied. 

This incident, the thrashing of one boy and 
the withdrawal of several others, brought 
peace and good will into the school-room, and 
I became on intimate and even affectionate 
terms with the remainder of the pupils, and 
on the last day of the term, examination day it 
was called, we were all much lauded and flat- 
tered by the school committee and assembled 
friends. It was my first experience of respon- 
sibility, and settled some matters with me for 
life, chief of which was that the only authority 
and influence of value are those that are 
gained by love. The more friendly and in- 
timate my relation with any pupil the more 
pleasant was my task, the more easy his les- 
son, the more rapid his progress. I also 
learned that all effort is lost on a stupid mind, 
and that it is better to wait upon its awaken- 
ing. In this I had my own experience to sup- 
port me, for I never learned anything until 
aroused from within; all else is but untemp- 
ered plaster that falls away as soon as it ceas- 
es to be fresh. Outside of my school and its 
duties I found considerable opportunity for 

243 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

Improving myself. The couple, with whom I 
boarded, were good souls, and, having no 
children of their own, showed me much kind- 
ly attention. The table was plentiful; we had 
pumpkin pie three times daily, baked in ob- 
long tins, and the corner piece was the fa- 
vorite cut. My room was large and pleasant, 
and better furnished than any I had ever oc- 
cupied. My host always wore a cheerful smile 
and seemed the happiest of men, although he 
never joked; his conversation was serious and 
religious, in striking contrast to his manner 
and usual countenance. He spoke of heaven and 
hell with the same merry twinkle in his eye, the 
same smiling face. His speech was accompan- 
ied by a sort of low, half audible whistle. 
He encouraged me through all my troubles, 
and told me not to worry about the old cider- 
drinking farmers, as there were more horse- 
whips than one in the "deestrict." His wife's 
chief dread in this mortal life was fire. She 
expected the house would burn up every night. 
I can see now her painful look of alarm when 
there was news of a conflagration anywhere; 
she would immediately leave her chair, look at 
the stove, examine the stovepipe and peer out 
into the kitchen. Then it was not unusual for 

244 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

dissolute, drinking men to take revenge on the 
total abstainers by setting fire to their barns. 
There was only one family in the district with 
whom I became intimate, and whose friend- 
ship across the continent I still keep. This 
was the family of a retired Universalist cler- 
gyman. They lived in a large farmhouse, and 
the clergyman was engaged in reclaiming an 
immense bog, and occasionally supplying some 
vacant neighboring pulpit. He was a vision- 
ary of a perfect kind. All bogs were to him 
prospective gardens of Eden; impossibili- 
ties to him the only things worth attempting; 
all men saints and angels. He had inherited 
a considerable fortune, which had mostly dis- 
appeared in the fathomless swamps of the dif- 
ferent towns where he had sojourned as a 
clergyman. His wife was a lineal descendant 
of one of the heroes of Concord Bridge; a 
beautiful, domestic woman full of prudent 
and wise counsels, which had saved the family 
from being swallowed up in her husband's 
Utopias. Three of their younger children 
were among the brightest of my pupils; three 
grown up sons were still at home, working 
on the land a part of the year, and in winter 
they made boots in a little shop attached to 

245 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

the house. As formerly In Hopklnton, so here 
In this shop, but with more Intelligence and 
learning, I heard and now took part In 
the discussion of all sorts of questions. Their 
minds seemed to have been trained In more 
philosophical directions than any I had met. 
Here I had some new Insights which helped 
me forward, and I heard much of the worth- 
lessness of religious dogmas. It was, how- 
ever, with a tin pedler, a friend and distant 
relative of this family, that I turned the new- 
est leaf in my mental progress. He usually 
travelled through Grafton twice a month, and 
made It his convenience to put up over night 
with his friends. It was there I used to meet 
him. His name was Daboll, and he claimed 
to be descended from that ancient Connecticut 
maker of arithmetics and almanacs, Nathan 
Daboll. He said that was why he became a 
pedler— he was born to calculate. Yet his 
occupation sat very lightly upon him. It gave 
him abundant opportunities for reflection and 
conversation. In the latter he took delight, 
and lost no chance of displaying his skill In 
setting forth his own Ideas and drawing out 
those of his customers. If he sold a pan or a 
broom It was accompanied by some bit of 

246 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

philosophy that he had evolved on the lone- 
some stretches of road between farmhouse 
and farmhouse. I write evolved; but that was 
not his own word, nor his theory of the origin 
of his ideas. He claimed that they came to 
him when he escaped his own control. I have 
forgotten many of the details and examples 
which he used to give in explanation of his 
doctrine, and should not remember them at 
all after so many years, save that at various 
times I have had similar experiences, and that 
I have been often reminded of them by the 
modern discussions of psychology, and espe- 
cially of the operations of the subjective mind. 
He said that he was led into his view from 
thinking about his dreams which were beyond 
control of the will. His next step was to ob- 
serve that he sometimes dreamed when awake ; 
that is, thoughts came into his mind without 
conscious effort, and at times when his head 
was wholly vacant or wholly occupied with his 
business. Many things were made clear to 
him in this manner, and he had come to the 
conclusion that the best way to get the wis- 
dom enjoined by the Bible and learned men, 
was to escape from yourself, in short, to be- 
come passive. In long summer days, slowly 

247 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

travelling his circuit of some forty miles, call- 
ing at every house where he was well known, 
and must needs be in no haste to trade, (for 
country people were never sure of what they 
wanted until they looked the cart over), he 
had plenty of time to resign himself to the in- 
voluntary and dreamlike states of mind, which 
solved for him the questions in which he was 
most interested. I was not so much impressed 
that such notions should come from a tin ped- 
ler as by the notions themselves; for at that 
period the democracy of our New England 
towns considered and treated a pedler as a 
man and a brother. His business was not re- 
garded as demeaning, and frequently was an 
apprenticeship to that of a store keeper, and 
he might, and sometimes did, become the rich 
merchant of a great city. Many young men 
peddled small wares, books and pictures be- 
tween terms to help themselves in paying for 
their education. So Reuben Daboll was no 
phenomenon; but his philosophy was phe- 
nomenal, at least to me, and kept me awake 
on the nights when the evening had been spent 
with him. It kept me awake, I say, for I 
never could reason far, and trying to think 
gave me a headache. I was perplexed by a 

248 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

thousand problems, my own, and those pro- 
pounded by my companions and elders, and 
others suggested in books; and I wondered 
if DaboU's way was not an easier and shorter 
method of answer than the pros and cons of 
argument. It is interesting now for me to re- 
flect upon the two influences following each 
other so closely, that were quickening my own 
faculties ; for they were in direct contrast with 
each other; one, the animated debates and at- 
tempted logical presentation of a subject with 
its related facts, as presented at the Worcester 
Academy; and this new method of passive 
receptivity, this opening of the inner eye of the 
mind to receive impressions. It was a long 
time before I could experiment with any suc- 
cess in this new direction, for I was of an ac- 
tive and impatient temperament, longing to 
hurry to an end that I might begin something 
new, and wishing to arrive rather than to 
profit by each day's march. As I grew to ma- 
turity, the latter method was more congenial 
and became of more practical use to me, and 
one of my favorite mottoes has been, "Our 
thoughts are a pious reception." 

The winter school being over in the spring, 
I returned to Worcester Academy feeling 

249 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

older and more sobered. I began Latin with 
a dim idea of going to college, how and when, 
I did not dare to forecast. I was not as happy 
as formerly in the school. The debates, com- 
positions and declamations interested me less, 
and I should have been quite dull except for 
some young girls at the Oread Institute. This 
institution had just been opened on the hill, 
directly opposite our academy. It was not 
within speaking distance, but was within writ- 
ing and signalling distance. All intercourse 
between the girl students and ourselves was 
prohibited. I have frequently noticed this 
juxtaposition of schools for the sexes, and al- 
so that laws of non-intercourse are enacted for 
no other purpose than to make their infringe- 
ment the more tempting and delightful. My 
chum knew one of the Oreads, a girl from his 
own village; with this key we carried the 
citadel. We established a post office in the 
neighboring stone wall and arranged many a 
clandestine meeting, walk or drive. The girl 
whom I had chosen for my devotions was 
from the White Mountains of New Hamp- 
shire. She wore her hair in long curls, that 
fell over her neck and shoulders, and were 
constantly straggling over her face. Then 

250 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

with a toss of her comely head and a pretty 
gesture of her hand she would throw them 
back. This little trick captivated me and 
fixed my fate. She constantly came between me 
and the Latin declensions and conjugations 
that I was trying to memorize. However, I 
was saved from anything like a formal at- 
tachment by her early announcement to me 
that she was engaged to the son of an ex- 
governor of New Hampshire. I had reason 
to suspect afterward that this was a subterfuge 
to forestall any serious consequences from our 
intercourse. If so, she was a wise maiden, 
and whatever claims we men may arrogate to 
ourselves, women are better tacticians than 
we in their personal relations. With this bar- 
rier, thus timely erected, I was kept on my 
good behavior and we amused ourselves with 
each other's company in many a stolen wood- 
land walk, and in a frequent defrauding of the 
Worcester post-office of its revenues. She 
wrote a tiny hand and could crowd more upon 
a page than I could upon four. I treasured 
her notes in my inmost pocket, and our secret 
correspondence gave me almost as deep a joy 
as did our companionship. 

It was at this time I began to make verses, 
251 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

as much from an Imitative instinct as from my 
sentimental relation with the pretty Oread; 
for there was now in the school a young man 
who set up for a poet and was much admired 
by us all. It seems to me he must have had 
a sense of musical rythm, for there has re- 
mained In my ear ever since a stanza of his 
which I caught as he read it to a little co- 
terie of students. There is nothing In It save 
its melody. 

"The while amid the greenwood 
Whistled the summer breeze 
Fair Mantua's maiden swore to wed 
Her loving Genoese." 

Those two names, Mantua and Genoese, 
had a wonderful, faraway imaginative asso- 
ciation for me, and still have. Matthew 
Arnold's magic of poetry, magical words and 
lines, explain all its charm for me. A feel- 
ing beyond the words or the sense is what I 
require in poetry. In vain did I try to ex- 
press in rhyme what I felt. The lines halted 
for the last word. I never ventured to read 
them to my Oread or fellow students. Thus 
I cherished two secrets and discovered that 

252 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

the private Indulgence of verse-making is al- 
most as sweet as a hidden love. The terms 
of the Academy and the Oread Institute end- 
ed on the same day, and I parted from my 
sweetheart never to meet again. 

FARM HAND 

What to do with myself during the long 
summer vacation was the next question. My 
money was fast wasting in spite of my 
economies. There were no country schools 
open to male teachers in summer. My 
sister advised me to find employment on 
a farm. I thought at once of Belling- 
ham, and my dear Uncle Lyman. He did not 
want help and eventually I hired myself to 
another uncle who lived in the extreme south- 
ern part of the town, close upon the boundary 
of Rhode Island. My wages were to be twelve 
dollars per month with board. My uncle's 
wife was my father's only surviving sister. 
Their children were married and settled else- 
where. All that was left to them was a large 
farm and old age. The one made them rath- 
er poorer than richer; the other brought upon 
them a growing habit of penurlousness, gloom 

253 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

and irritability. I was expected to do all the 
heavy work and most of the chores, except 
the milking; that, they would allow no one to 
do, for fear of not squeezing out the lastdrop. 
My aunt still made butter and cheese to sell, 
and in this work I usually helped her the first 
thing in the morning before the regular day's 
work. We had breakfast at sunrise, often be- 
fore. After breakfast my uncle went into the 
sitting-room where : 

"He waled a portion with judicious care, 
'And let us worship God,' he says, with 
solemn air." 

I suppose that Is what he did, for I could 
hear the low mumble of his voice and occa- 
sionally catch a scriptural phrase, but neither 
my aunt nor myself participated in this mock- 
ery of family prayers. She said she had too 
much to do, and she could not spare me from 
the cheese tub and the churn. She scolded her 
husband for his contributions to the church, 
and begrudged every cent that was spent. She 
had Franklin's prudential maxims at her 
tongue's end, besides many another gathered 
in the course of her long life of thrift and 

254 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

hard work. She never rested from her la- 
bors until the Sabbath. Our food was of the 
coarsest kind, but well cooked, and work and 
hunger were sauce enough. She baked once 
a week in a great brick oven ; her other daily 
cooking was done by an open fire. Brown 
bread and cheese were the staff of our life, 
and I became more fond of them than of any 
viands I have since eaten. In vain have I be- 
sought my household to discover the recipe 
of my aunt's brown loaves. Who can recover 
for me the relish that went with them ? With 
this aged couple I led a lonely yet healthful 
life. I came nearer to the earth than ever 
before ; I mean her dirt, her stones, her odors 
and dews as well as to cows, sheep and horses, 
whose closer relation to the soil insensibly af- 
fects those who have the care of them. I felt 
myself a brother to the ox that I yoked and 
guided along the furrow. My nigh ox came 
from the pasture at my call and would 
lick my hand and stretch out his neck 
to be stroked. The whole barnyard was 
friendly, and I took pleasure, having 
none other, in the signs of it. The neigh- 
bors were few and I saw nothing of them. 
One young man sometimes called, but as his 

255 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

Interest in me appeared to consist In a desire 
to save my soul his visits distressed me. It 
was my singular fortune through my child- 
hood and early youth, to have been followed 
by soul savers. At last in desperation I told 
him that I was not sure as yet that I had a soul 
to save; when I had, I would consider his 
propositions. Whereupon he went his way and 
reported that I was a Universalist, that being 
in Bellingham the most opprobrious of names, 
in consequence of an ancient feud between the 
Baptist and Universalist churches. The Bap- 
tists had come off conquerers; the name, how- 
ever, remained; and an indefinable name of 
reproach is a convenient thing to have in a 
country neighborhood. 

I have mentioned the penuriousness of my 
employers. In the case of my uncle it was ex- 
hibited in the most extraordinary, amusing, 
yet harmless ways. He never could pass by an 
old, bent, used-up nail, bit of string, pin or a 
straight stick without picking It up and putting 
it away. The collar of his coat and front of 
his gaudy flannel vest were stuck full of point- 
less pins and eyeless needles. The shed oppo- 
site the house was a museum of rubbish, odds 
and ends of the most worthless articles neatly 

256 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

sorted, tied up in small bundles and hung 
about the sides of the building. It was a well- 
developed mania with him, having acquired 
it through his long years of money getting and 
saving, and in larger matters, which had made 
him a well-to-do farmer. Although now old, 
he was a well-preserved man; there was still 
a wholesome red spot in his cheek, and a 
gleam of youth in his eye. His movements 
were so deliberate and slow that it was impos- 
sible that he could ever have worn himself out 
with work. He would pause between every 
hill that he hoed and make some remark, or 
look up at the sun for the time of the day. He 
could not mow a straight swath because he 
was always nicking in and out for some straw 
left by other mowers. When he harnessed 
his aged horse, as reliable as an ox to drive, 
and not much faster, he would go over and 
over every buckle and strap to make sure that 
all was safe, in the meantime talking to him in 
a soothing voice as if he expected every mo- 
ment that he would run away. If Jim had a 
strong point it was in standing still. When he 
sneezed he used to say, "I guess I am good 
for another day," and like his wife he had a 
ready proverb for everything. Seldom could 

257 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

I catch the whole of it, for he sputtered in 
his speech and had a falsetto voice. It was 
evident that he had acquired his property by 
exceeding thrift, rather than labor, by that 
ancient all-pervading custom of the New Eng- 
land farmer of doing without and making 
things last another year. 

I had promised myself to do some studying 
during the summer, but found that the long 
hours of labor and fatigue at their end unfitted 
me for anything save rest and sleep. I scarcely 
opened a book of any kind. I had a volume 
of Macauly's Essays with me in which I read 
a little on the Sabbath. On rainy days I stole 
away to the hay mow and read one of Jane 
Porter's novels which I found in the house. I 
attempted to commit to memory the whole of 
the Lady of the Lake, but got no farther than 
the first canto, and the songs interspersed 
through the others. These songs I recited 
in the field, and they were a great comfort to 
me. Little do the poets know in what strange, 
obscure places, and in what lonely, unknown 
hearts their verses find lodgment. It is not 
necessary that one should contend that Scott 
is the greatest of poets, who thought so for a 
single summer. 

258 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

With thirty dollars In my purse and a blue 
camlet suit made of a cloak, which had been 
my father's best outer garment, I returned to 
Worcester Academy. I made a resolution, 
which I kept, to have no more Intimacies with 
the Oreads, and to devote myself to study. I 
still cherished the Idea of college, although it 
seemed as distant as ever. I began to be In- 
terested In public affairs and attended the first 
convention of the Free Soil party which was 
held In Worcester. I heard Charles Sumner 
and Charles Allen speak. Sumner appealed 
to my sympathies, Allen to my reason. Allen 
argued, Sumner was eloquent. Most young 
men In New England had hitherto been ad- 
mirers of Webster and Clay, and termed 
themselves Whigs. The truth was they were 
called to whatever was eloquence. They wor- 
shipped the greatness of sounding, patriotic 
periods. How we admired Kossuth, and im- 
mediately paid him the shallow compliment 
of wearing a Kossuth hat. I also thought I 
was a Whig, much to the sorrow of my moth- 
er, whose sympathies were with the Abolition- 
ists. After the Free Soil convention I was a 
Free Soller, and such I continued, casting my 
first vote for John C. Fremont. At this time 

259 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

Worcester was the favorite place for every 
kind of convention of the friends of progress. 
Anti-slavery, Non-resistance and Women's 
Rights. I heard all the strange and strong 
speakers and advocates on those free and 
lively platforms. I heard Garrison, Phillips, 
May, Quincy, Pillsbury, the Fosters, So- 
journer Truth, Burleigh, Lucretia Mott, and 
Ernestine Rose. The last speaker, a hand- 
some, modishly dressed New York Jewess, 
converted me to the cause of woman. In a 
short time I was an enthusiastic reformer all 
along the line. Probably there has been no 
period in our history so charged with new 
and revolutionary ideas as that from 1835 to 
1850. It was a good time to be alive and to 
be near the center of agitation in Massachu- 
setts. I heard both church and state and the 
whole structure of society attacked. What- 
ever other reform might be under discussion 
these were sure to receive the hardest blows; 
strike, and spare not, was the watchword. For 
me the great event in my personal experience 
and awakening at this period, was not espe- 
cially connected with the reforms that I have 
named. One small book very much in com- 
mon with my former limited reading and en- 

260 



APPRENTICESHIPS 

thusiasms for celebrated men, shook me to the 
center of my being. It was Emerson's Rep- 
resentative Men, recently published. Care- 
lessly looking over the volumes on Mr. 
Grout's counter in Worcester, I took it up, at- 
tracted by its title, for I was always hungering 
for stories of eminent men, always hoping to 
find the secret of their greatness, that I might 
use it for my own advancement. I stood and 
read a few pages, laid down the book, but felt 
that I must read it through. After some bat- 
tling between my purse and desire, desire 
won, and I bought the precious volume 
at the cost of my breakfast for several 
weeks, so slender were my resources. In 
the course of three or four years I 
added to my library Milton's poems, a 
volume of Tennyson and three of Pot- 
ter's translation of Euripides; the latter, 
not because I wanted it, but because I hap- 
pened to have made the final bid at a book 
auction. In Representative Men I found the 
meat my nature craved. In all previous his- 
tories and biographies that I had read, there 
was much going round and about poets and 
heroes, an external, academic treatment; with 
Emerson I seemed to come nearer the possible 

261 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

ideal which was already vaguely outlined in 
my mind. Besides there was much else than 
Napoleon and Shakespeare in the pages. 
There were the moral and poetic insights, 
and, moreover, there was the style, the vital 
and penetrating Emersonianism, which 
aroused, and no doubt, dazzled the youthful 
and impressionable reader. Emerson's terse 
epigrammatic method of writing was con- 
genial to my inability to follow difficult log- 
ic. His style seemed to me the poetical foil 
of all the prosers of all time. Through the 
reading of this book eventually I became ac- 
quainted with Emerson, Alcott and Thoreau. 
They became my teachers; I followed them 
until, by their guidance, I was enlarged 
enough to find my own way into companion- 
ship with those poets and thinkers, who have 
endured through the ages. May I never for- 
get to acknowledge my debt to those men of 
Concord, my earliest masters in fidelity to 
ideals and the inward light. 



262 



CONCLUSION 

I BEGAN to write these confidences of 
boyhood for my own pleasure. If I 
were to continue them into man- 
hood I could not find nor distinguish 
myself. It would be like emerging 
suddenly from solitude into a crowd. The 
bright days of childhood easily separate them- 
selv^es from all later time, and are painted with 
the free pencil of the Imagination. I have 
now come almost to the wide gateways of the 
world where I must join the indistinguishable 
procession and begin to forget myself In Its 
alluring enchantments. 

With the discovery of certain books of an- 
cient history, Plutarch, Euripides and Emer- 
son's Essays there came an unexpected close 
to my student life at the Worcester Academy. 
Several of my classmates and myself agreed 
that we could be better fitted for college at 
Phillips Academy, Andover, than where we 
were, and accordingly we put ourselves under 
the tuition of Dr. Samuel H. Taylor, at that 
time the most eminent school and drill-master 
In New England. Under him I just escaped 

263 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 

becoming a classical scholar and also nearly 
lost the chance of ever acquiring a love for 
the classics; for it was drill, paradigms, 
rules, exceptions, scansion, in short, all that 
pertains to the external apparatus of the Greek 
and Latin tongues. Often we spent two hours 
on eight lines of Homer. The father of lit- 
erature became a Procrustean, grammatical 
bed on which we were to be stretched, and it 
did nearly exterminate every one of us. For 
my own part, I was possessed with an intem- 
perate haste to read Homer straight through 
as fast as I could; for I felt, without ex- 
actly knowing, that there was something in the 
epic I wanted, yes, I needed and must have. 
Checked in this by the rigors of the recitation 
room I lost much of my interest in study, and 
spent the time which was supposed to be given 
to text books in reading all the classic and 
English poetry I could find, and in valorous 
attempts at composition, both prose and verse. 
This I by no means now regret, and rejoice 
that my tuition escaped the Spartan discipline 
no less than the present pragmatical curricula. 
At length I was fitted for college and ad- 
mitted to Harvard. Misfortunes culminated 
at the same moment. I did not remain. I was 

264 



CONCLUSION 

too ill for study, and suddenly the bottom of 
my perfidious purse dropped out. Bitter was 
my disappointment. But in another year I be- 
gan a new career which brought me happiness, 
new opportunities, new friends and dividends 
from Utopian investments. Health and hope, 
my natural inheritance, returned. Boyhood 
was gone, but not the invincible boy. 

As in the Parable I had traveled far, un- 
certain of the road. My diet had been mostly 
husks, but how sweet! Arriving at last at 
hospitable doors, I could receive without peni- 
tence, without tears the welcome long pre- 
pared for me. Thenceforth I submitted my- 
self with more patience and trust to the des- 
tiny which had been awaiting me throughout 
my apprenticeships. My destiny became my 
choice. 



265 



CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
AVE ATGUE VALE 

I shall not pass this way again; 
But near by is the town where I was born ; 
I loved it well. 

And near my heart my mother State; 
She wreathed her sword with freedom, learn- 
ing, law 

When tyrants fell. 

Three words from Athens held me long; 
Nothing-too-much, proportion, harmony; 
By these excel. 

I never hurried for the goal, 
But like the tortoise travelled steadily, 
Sans band, sans bell. 

Born when the star of Spring arose, 
Haply my auspices were cast for calm 
Of wood and dell. 

Form I admired and sounds and scents; 
Motion of waters, silences of stars- 
Mighty their spell I 

266 



CONCLUSION 

No senate called me from the plow; 
No hundred thousand readers read my 
books — 

They did not sell. 

Many the friends when life was new 
Heaven sent to me, but now, alas, reclaimed; 
Sound, Muse, their knell. 

You, who hereafter pass this way. 
Remember him who made this simple book 
And say farewell. 



267 



7 78 







■^ 









<3 






o " o 













' -^^^ 



^ 



h^ 



.^' 



t ^^-^r^i.. 



I 






V 



^> 



V • O 












O > 



O " « * -CV- 

■A * > ^^ 



< ^ s • • * 



'^t-. 



■V ° " " 














%. 



On 



^-.^v 



.0^ 



O" 



A^ 



^'^. 



^o 






aM 



vPj 



^ 





c 



JAN 78 

N. MANCHESTER 
INDIANA 






^-^^ .«:^ 



